CHAPTER 7
Harry preceded the guard down the dimly lit hall, trying to ignore the wand-tip that danced up and down his jugular vein with every step.
Obnoxious git.
He wondered morbidly what creature he would have to face, and tried to ignore the faint sound of the announcer playing up the crowd. Harry had always been a spectacle to the magical world, it seemed, but never had he been faced with a situation that summed up his feelings about it so well. A fight to the death in the grand arena, while the innumerable masses looked on; they would be satisfied with either his victory or his defeat, so long as blood was shed!
What the hell did you do in your past life to deserve this kind of rubbish? Harry thought to himself in an accusatory fashion. It must have been particularly awful. Fighting monsters in front of a crowd was a cruel and unusual punishment if he'd ever heard one, and this wasn't even his first time at it.
The guard directed him to one empty lift with much jabbing and threatening glares, and he looked up to glimpse what seemed to be a starry sky through the crisscrossing planks. The other lifts were all empty, and he surmised that whatever he was facing was already waiting up there. The lift doors were pushed shut, and it began to ascend. The wooden grill above him parted, and what he'd taken for a real sky was in fact enchanted, much like the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and he could see the high rafters beyond. The light was coming from intense spotlights that sat upon the high timber wall around the massive field of sand—they were so bright that Harry couldn't quite see the crowd beyond.
But he could feel them there, like an oppressive mass—they filled the towering stands, and the building crescendo of noise as he came into view was nearly enough to knock him over. A reverberating voice was recapping the last bout, and several witches and wizards were cleaning up what appeared to be entrails on the other side of the arena.
Harry stumbled as the lift clanked to a stop.
He stepped out onto the brightly lit sand, trying not to think too hard about the vibrant splashes of crimson here and there, and his gaze settled on the giant pen that was slowly rattling up from beneath the sand. His stomach flipped first with giddy recognition, followed by cold dread, when he realized what was inside the pen. Wooly Aurochs. There were wizards and witches circling the bars, shooting spells at the beasts, and Harry could tell even from this distance that they had been worked up into white-eyed fury.
He clenched his jaw. Those were not things to be fought. Those were things to be trampled under.
Much too soon, the handlers were scrambling for the stands, a horn blared, cage bars collapsed with a clang, and the aurochs herd charged the field. They were just too big, even for this giant stage, and their ground-eating strides would quickly close the gap between them and the only puny, two-legged tormenter they could reach.
"Aaah," Harry growled, and flashed into action. The sight of so many towering, thundering beasts bearing down on him lent speed to his legs, and he streaked away from the leader at a right angle, casting his hand out behind him in an attempt to banish the beast. The big bull faltered slightly, but didn't visibly slow down.
Oh, this was not going to work.
The sand was sucking at his feet, and the waves of particles cast up by the stampeding herd were pelting his back. Knock them into each other, he thought desperately. He was rounding the front of the charge, and they were having trouble quickly changing direction to follow.
"Accio!" he shouted, yanking hard. It was like grabbing on to something set in concrete. He felt his magic seize hold, but if he'd physically grabbed for it, he would have easily pulled his arm from its socket. He saw lights pop in front of his eyes, but his target still stumbled into a nearer beast, slamming into its shoulder.
Harry skidded to a stop and quickly dashed the other way, and chaos ensued. He flung his arms forward and again tried to banish the leader. This time the beast put its head down sharply and slowed, as if it were trying to push through quicksand.
"Accio!" he panted again, this time pulling hard on an aurochs in the middle of the herd. It bellowed as it stumbled through the paths of several beasts, who at the same time were all smashing into the slowing front runners.
Harry dropped his arm, panting for breath, and the elephantine beasts began turning to face him, shaking their heavily horned heads. The leader moved quickest of all, turning in the sand like a monstrous dressage horse. He needed to slow them down; tire them out, before he even tried to do as he remembered Hagrid suggesting. As things were now, they wouldn't even notice that he was trying to expose his neck before they trampled him.
With a keening bellow, the lead bull reared slightly, twisting his head, and charged again. Every footfall of those tree-trunk limbs sent a tremor through the sand. Harry took off again before he could give in to his instinctual fear and freeze.
Accio! he cast over his shoulder, pulling on one of those flashing forelegs, and the beast stumbled. The rest of the herd was milling, turning to focus on him, and he knew he didn't have much time before another full out charge began. They saw him as a threat, and if the spit foaming at their gray muzzles was any indication, they were still highly agitated.
His lungs were burning now, and his legs were quivering with each stride. He didn't have much left in him. He angled out slightly toward the rest of the herd, and then abruptly shot back in the opposite direction, so that he was between the herd and the bull.
The bull tried to intercept him, but couldn't turn quickly enough. Harry streaked past. At the point when the bull was most overbalanced, twisting around, Harry slid to a stop and poured everything he had into summoning the bull's left front foot, while banishing the right.
It was like trying to lift a car, and light exploded before his eyes. He swayed on his feet, while fifty feet away the towering beast went down in a shower of sand.
Harry lurched forward, heart hammering in his chest, while the bull thrashed, trying to get his hooves under him. Just as the aurochs managed his front feet, and was lowering his massive head to surge upward, Harry dropped to one knee before him and bowed, baring the back of his neck.
God damn it, Hagrid, you'd better be right about this.
A gasp went up through the crowd, and the stadium went deathly quiet. For a long moment, all Harry could hear was the bull's heavy panting, and expected at any second to be brutally smashed into the ground. Then one hoof shifted in the sand, and Harry hazarded a glance upward. The bull's regal head was bowed low to the ground, scattering bits of sand with every breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the rest of the herd doing the same. He could have collapsed from sheer relief, but he staggered to his feet instead. The bull aurochs rose as well, and plodded forward in slow, careful steps, to take in Harry's scent with his wide, moist snout.
Harry patted him shakily, mentally thanking Hagrid. His voice cracked as he said into the silence, "Good boy."
The crowd erupted with approval. The big beast startled slightly, and Harry saw his life flash before his eyes all over again.
And then the witches and wizards were swarming back on to the field, herding the aurochs back toward the other end and into the erected pen with short blasts from their wands.
Harry slumped as he watched the wooly aurochs descend slowly out of sight, relieved that he had survived, and more weary than he could ever remember being. With an effort, he stirred himself to listen to what the commentator was saying. "…seems that was hardly a challenge for this kid! Maybe we can rustle up something that'll really give him trouble, what do you folks think?"
The crowd roared from beyond the brilliant lights, and Harry felt his carefully shored up will begin to crumble.
He might have broken down right then and there, if it weren't for his stubborn pride. He wouldn't let them see any weakness, damn them all.
He straightened his spine, alone in the vast arena, and waited.
The heavy nails in his pocket were a comforting presence. He would actually have to use them this time—he didn't have the strength to run any more. Although he wasn't very confident in his aim. Maybe he should practice on the crowd, he mused viciously.
He couldn't understand what the purpose of all this was. Was it just to torture him? Was it all Voldemort's doing? Why not just kill him outright; why go through all this pageantry?
And where the hell was Voldemort, anyway?
"Idiot Dark Lord," he muttered, watching another of the lift shafts rattle open. This one at least looked small enough to contain one creature rather than a rampaging horde. Before he could start relaxing, the bellowing roar from the lift cage reminded him that optimism was for suckers.
The shape of the form that slowly rose above the sands was condemning enough. Its towering stature and rippling muscles were sharply reminiscent of a certain encounter from his first year. That was where the similarities to the cave troll ended however—this creature was not shambling or clumsy. Its skin was white—the opaque white of Aunt Petunia's good ceramics—covered in slicing, scooping pink scars, and its shoulders were loosely covered in shaggy off-white hair. It had two pitch-black, spiraling horns protruding from its heavy-browed skull, and a pair of flat yellow eyes.
And there was the most terrifying thing about this creature; it wasn't on a blind rampage or aimlessly wandering. It was focused and purposeful, and there was a ferocious cunning in those eyes. Harry immediately knew he was in trouble.
Well… more trouble.
"…see how he fares against this beauty!" the announcer was saying. "You folks are looking at a rare and elusive Mountain Troll, of the Bhutanese subspecies—commonly misidentified as a Yeti. Those arms have a crushing capacity of nearly two thousand kilos—that's the bite force of a Welsh Green, ladies and gents!"
"Thank you, Mr. Announcer," Harry muttered, trying to remain calm. His whole body seemed ready to betray him, and his head was full of a high buzzing.
"You're welcome, young sir!" the announcer replied jovially. Harry winced, unaware that the man—and likely everyone else—could hear everything he said.
Wait—they could hear him.
"Hang on!" he shouted, before the announcer could speak again. "Just—hang on! I didn't sign up for this—"
"Regretting your decision to play already, kid?" the announcer replied, laughing as if Harry had made a rather good joke. The audience chuckled along, likely assuming it was all scripted. The man was either oblivious to the Galloping Galleon's inner workings, or he was being well compensated by Harry's captor. Cheerfully, the announcer boomed, "But you all didn't come to listen to us talk! Ladies and gentlemen, let's begin the next round!"
Harry thought the hollow clang that sounded as the cage went down would haunt his nightmares.
Damn it, he thought, gritting his teeth. Keep playing till you pass out or die, is that how this works? The crowd roared.
For a long moment the white beast stood perfectly still, just watching him. Harry wracked his brain for any tricks or tips to dealing with trolls. He remembered Professor Quirrel had been reputed to have an affinity for the creatures, but thinking back to those first Defense classes, Harry recalled nothing that could help him here. Trolls weren't dark creatures—just big, dangerous, and more often than not, mistreated.
Nails, then. He eyed the creature's thick white skin, and didn't have much confidence.
As if in answer to his silent decision, the troll went from standing to sprinting in the blink of an eye.
A shot of adrenaline rushed up Harry's spine and he threw out his hands. Spots popped before his eyes, and the troll jerked sideways, smashing into the wall.
It felt for a moment as if the earth had dropped out from under him, and he stumbled. The troll bounced back as if it had just been a friendly pat, and was advancing again, though more warily.
Harry wondered if he had any running left in him.
The troll's yellow eyes missed nothing, easily picking up on his flagging strength. It surged in for the kill. Harry had time to take a step back—too close!—before it was upon him, swinging down with one giant fist.
Harry pushed with all his might—if that strike connected, he was done, in more ways than one—and the world shifted dizzily. A second later, Harry realized with shock that he had pushed himself away instead, and tumbled to a stop nearly twenty feet from where he'd started.
The troll paused only a moment before it roared in anger and tore after him.
Definitely time for nails, Harry thought frantically, and tried to dig them out.
The troll was just too fast, and it seemed this time it was going to try and grab him rather than make the mistake of missing a strike. The image of a Welsh Green snapping down on his arm flashed before his eyes, and Harry twisted away just as his fingers finally closed on a nail.
The troll's other arm flashed toward him just as he spun around to face the creature. His heart jumped to his throat, and he threw the nail, banishing it with everything he could muster.
The four-inch long spike drove right through the troll's hand, and it gave an earsplitting bellow.
Harry skipped away from the next swing—the troll was loosing its temper, its movements increasingly frenzied.
Harry banished two more nails. They shot through the air with the force of a rail-gun, driving into the gleaming white of the troll's shoulder and bicep. The blackish blood running down its arm was shocking against the pale skin, but the injuries hardly seemed to do anything but make it angrier.
Harry ducked and dodged, but the troll still managed to clip his ear with one wild swipe, and he swallowed the explosion of sharp, nauseating pain. Stumbling, he pulled out two more nails, and sent them whistling toward the troll's feet, hoping to gain some distance.
They hit true, but the troll didn't even slow down.
Panic was worming its way up his throat, and he twisted in mid-stride to banish another nail over his shoulder. It impacted square between the troll's eyes, but to Harry's astonishment, it only went in part way, and the troll, though in obvious pain, appeared nowhere even close to dying.
It lunged, and Harry, though he pumped his muscles until they screamed, simply did not have it in him to outrun a mountain troll. The giant paw slammed into his lower back, and the next moment he was being driven into the ground by the full weight and momentum of the beast. His lungs emptied in a sharp rush, his face was being ground into the sand, and every bone in his body creaked with the stress—he was sure his spine would snap.
The next instant he was being drug by his leg across the ground, up into a wild arc, and violently launched into the air. He barely had time to register the wall that was speeding toward him at an alarming rate before his left shoulder crashed into it. Wood splintered beneath him, and he bounced off to collapse into the sand like a rag-doll.
It felt like an eternity passed before he was able to cough, taking in a lung full of air and spitting out a mouth full of blood. But in truth it was only a few seconds, and the sound of heavy feet told him the mountain troll was nearly upon him again.
He pushed himself to his hands and knees, already numbly digging into his pocket for another nail. Ice flooded his veins when he realized there was only one left. How could he stop the troll with one rusty nail when the others had done so little? It was hopeless, he'd tried everything—
Then the troll bellowed its rage, so close he could feel the spit of its exhalation—
No. This was not the end. He refused it.
He had friends to see, and things to do. He would not die here in the bloody sand to an audience of rich thugs. He wouldn't go out with his head down.
He rose to a crouch and, with the last scraps of his will, sent a banisher at the troll's head. It snapped sharply to the side. With a grunt, the great beast twisted in mid stride, and toppled. Harry breathed a quick prayer, and sent the last nail rocketing toward the base of the troll's skull.
The troll went down in a cloud of sand and dust, its momentum carrying it tumbling forward. Harry remained crouched, every nerve thrumming.
The crowd was similarly silent; they were all waiting with bated breath. Hope, buoyant and treacherous, kindled in him, and he let his shoulders relax infinitesimally.
Then, as if the universe were having a good laugh at his expense, the hulking shape gave a guttural rumble and slowly lurched to its feet.
Harry could only stare up at the hulking shape. As it took a step forward, Harry mentally threw up his arms.
That was it. He'd tried. He was out of ideas.
He began to chuckle helplessly, even as the troll lunged forward with a deep-throated snarl, taking him by the torso in one massive hand and slamming him into the wall. He felt his ribs crack with a nauseating sound; a series of muffled pops like snapping carrots, and a sudden flaming, constrictive pinching. But he didn't stop chuckling—though it hurt so badly that he was wheezing—until the troll's giant paw crushed against his throat.
It was then, with the troll's furious, craggy face and blazing yellow eyes so close to his own, that he saw his salvation. The nails were still there; the troll hadn't bothered to pull them out. Hope and dread warred within him; he knew how to finish this.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was 'ghk.'
To his amazement, the Troll lightened the grip on his throat, though its face remained contorted with rage. Harry knew that it must have hated every human with equal passion, and judging by its thickly scarred skin, it had good reason.
Harry took a deep rattling breath. "I don't want to kill you."
The troll blinked, its ferocious countenance going slack with surprise. Then, with an expression of perfect derision, it growled quite clearly, "Lucky for us, you not need worry."
The crushing grip redoubled, and Harry gagged as his windpipe closed down. No, he thought desperately. Don't make me do this. He struggled mightily, scrabbling with his hands against the ridiculous power of the troll. Anything but this. It didn't matter that he would die if he did nothing, and it didn't matter that this was a troll and not a human. He knew it had been a prisoner of humans, a mockery, a spectacle, and had every right to this anger. He wondered what he'd have become in its place. He didn't want to look into its eyes as he killed it.
He tried to convey a silent apology, even while he was being strangled. It shouldn't be like this.
He summoned the nail in the back of its head at the same time he banished the one in its forehead. The troll's head jerked with a sickening squelch, and Harry watched the light go out of its eyes.
For a moment it seemed to stare back at him, as if in shock, before slowly crumpling to the ground. Without the grip holding him up, Harry dropped beside it, and fell to his knees. He could barely hear the roar of applause around him—it washed over and beyond him in a muffled buzz. He was trembling so hard it felt as if his bones would rattle apart.
He looked at the still form of the mountain troll, and couldn't help but think it was a waste. He looked around at the wide arena, the cheering crowds, and the beautiful charmed stars above. It was all a waste. His jaw clenched in bitter, hollow anger. If this was the way the wizarding world treated magical beings, it was no wonder they were all siding with Voldemort.
He tried to haul himself up, failed, and managed on the second attempt. The announcer was saying something inane about good triumphing over evil. Harry held out a hand and summoned the nail that had been imbedded in the troll's forehead. As it flew into his grip, hot with blood, he swore to himself that he would not forget this.
He took a step, and the world tilted crazily, rushing up to meet him. Bugger, he thought, before the buzzing in his ears became too much to handle, and he slipped into oblivion.
Tonks perched on the kitchen counter and watched the Order slowly go mad. They were at the Burrow—Grimmauld Place was apparently still up for grabs—and Molly had chased her off the counter three times already, but there was nowhere else to sit that wasn't too far away to observe the proceedings.
It had been four—nearly five—days since Harry had disappeared from almost the very doorstep of the Burrow. The only people who knew it were currently in this house, or out on assignment trying to scrape up more information. The senior Order members—led by Dumbledore—had decided early on to keep this from leaking to the Ministry, on the grounds that whatever danger Harry was in now, it would only increase once it became public knowledge that he was no longer under any sort of protection.
They'd made the decision, of course, on the heels of Snape's revelation that, as far as he knew, You-know-who was not responsible for the abduction, and the Order didn't want to give the enemy any reason to go looking for Harry. Tonks found this so disturbing that she'd lain awake for hours trying to figure out who else wanted Harry dead—who else could manage to cause the Ministry and the Order so much trouble? And if You-Know-Who wasn't responsible, then what the hell was he doing with his time?
Without the Ministry's involvement, Tonks found herself able to contribute next to nothing beyond her status as a willing and able grunt, and she could hardly remember being so frustrated.
She thought this plan was foolish—utterly, and totally foolish. Even if the Ministry and the Order were not on the same page politically, they still needed to find Harry, and the mores eyes out, the easier it would be. Not telling people just made it all the more likely that they would miss him, right under their noses. But the Order had made a decision, which meant that while they were the only ones who knew, they were also the only ones who could do the work to find him.
She couldn't help the sting of annoyance she felt—she should have just kept Harry with her that day. He'd been perfectly fine before she left. He could have job shadowed her or something. She suddenly liked that idea, and made a point to offer it to him. If they ever saw him again, she reminded herself bitterly. But he should have been safe here! This was the Burrow, for God's sake, the bloody headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix.
She shot another glance at the tense knot of people around the kitchen table. Dumbledore's presence seemed to tower over them all, even bent over a map as he was. This was too personal for him; Tonks knew the signs. Aurors got too emotionally involved in cases all the time; it was difficult not to when dealing with issues of such heavy moral impact. But Dumbledore wasn't an Auror, and Tonks knew that for all his age and wisdom, he'd didn't have the training for something like this. Not to mention how thinly spread he already was, between the Wizengamot, Hogwarts, and leading the Order against You-Know-Who—at this very moment he was supposed to be aboard that wizard ship, the Galloping Galleon.
Tonks thought he could have used the vacation, even if the old man probably would have used it for information gathering anyway. Did he ever even sleep?
She frowned as she looked at him. Although she'd never really had doubts about the old man's leadership before, she found herself assessing him, and her lack of confidence in the Headmaster was burrowing a pit in her stomach. If he was losing his grip on things, who would take his place? What would happen to the Order if he were ever lost? It hardly bore thinking about.
McGonagall was there too, looking particularly overwrought. Although, Tonks wasn't certain if this was a vestige of her own brush with being used against Harry, or the stress of the situation. They still hadn't fully puzzled out the tiny artifact that had been found on her. Tonks had seen it only briefly—a tiny, green and gold lacquered insect, driven by a spike through her ear—before it had been snatched away. It was probably now under intense study in the Department of Mysteries—or, just as likely, in the possession of Albus Dumbledore himself.
Molly sat nearby, looking drained and disconsolate. She probably couldn't stop thinking about how she had smiled and waved them out the door. She'd been the last one to see Harry. Tonks might have felt sympathetic if she weren't so screaming mad at the woman. Molly had been responsible for screening visitors, and she had simply let the disguised person waltz up and waltz away again with nary a confirmation of identity. It was Dumbledore, right? What else did you need to know?
Tonks simply couldn't imagine seeing someone playing as Dumbledore and not being able to tell that something was off. Although evidently Harry hadn't been able to tell this time either—at least until it was too late. She'd heard that by the time anyone had seen Harry's flare and ran outside, the abductors were already Apparating away.
Lupin and Snape were also hunched over the table. With uncharacteristic tact, Snape was helping with only occasional digs at Harry. Tonks kept a careful watch on him.
Aside from a long list of people who had nothing to do with the abduction, the only concrete information the Order had was that Arthur Weasley had also been missing for nearly five days. No one had seen him after he clocked off from work that evening, although several people had commented that he had been acting rather strange. Everyone feared the worst: that Arthur had been appropriated into service as another Dumbledore doppelganger. But he hadn't returned afterwards, which either meant he was still being used, he was being held, he was working under his own initiative, or he had outlived his usefulness. The despondent expression on every Weasley's face made it obvious what they all feared.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, talking softly in the corner of the living room, looked even more distraught, if that was at all possible.
After all, they had no proof whatsoever that Harry hadn't been killed two days ago, and wasn't lying in a ditch somewhere, or floating down the river. If You-know-who didn't have him—and there was nothing stopping whoever did from turning Harry over for the right price—then the possibilities for where he was and why were infinite.
Tonks hoped that wherever Harry was, he was with Arthur, that they were unhurt, and that they were still in the land of the living.
"Har-ry," sang a voice.
Christ, Harry thought, suppressing a groan. You again. He cracked his eyes open, relieved to find his glasses in place. He squinted up from where he was once again bound and lying on his side like a discarded shank of meat. Sure enough, there was his captor, resplendent in tailed jacket and top hat, face blurred.
They were back in the luxury suite, and the man was sitting in one of the plush velvet chairs with his leg crossed, as he apparently had been doing for quite some time.
Harry hated this room. It made a mockery of his situation. At least if he'd been in a stone cell, he could properly say I'm a prisoner. Maybe they'd feed him through a trap door, and there would be a little window that let in light from high above, and there might be rats scurrying about.
But here, the whole thing just seemed absurd. Yes, he'd been held for days, yes he'd been starved, yes he'd nearly been killed by a troll. But then he came back to this cushy room, as if he were some kind of pampered guest, and it didn't matter if he couldn't sleep in that big, plush bed. He was being held in a bedroom, while a leisurely party went on just outside. It made it all seem a lie.
It made him feel embarrassed, humiliated, and, in a masochistic sort of way, cheated. He'd been robbed of a properly grim and gritty cell, and instead had to lie tied up in an opulent bedroom like some kind of slave waiting for its master's pleasure. Of course, that was probably just the way his captor wanted him to feel.
Harry grimaced, and decided that if—when—he got out of this, he would definitely tell the story differently.
Harry realized that, although he felt rather stiff—and this throbbing headache had to be from dehydration, and his stomach seemed to be trying to wring itself like a hand towel—he didn't feel like anything was broken.
The man, who had been watching him silently, seemed to detect his confusion, because he waved a hand dismissively. "I'm afraid they patched you up before I could retrieve you from the lower level. Standard procedure, you see. Pity, that."
Harry just stared back at him, quietly grinding his teeth.
"Still nothing to say, Mr. Potter? Well, at least you've learned that, in the absence of anything interesting, it is best to say nothing at all."
Accio, Harry thought, focusing hard on a heavy looking lamp behind the man. It slipped off its table and fell pointlessly to the floor, and the effort left Harry dizzy. He was running on fumes, it seemed. Even though the man's face was blurred, Harry could see him crack a wide smile at the attempt.
Harry blew a long breath out his nose, trying to be calm. "Sorry to disappoint."
"On the contrary!" the man said, sounded highly affronted. "You performed magnificently! Honestly, I thought at first that you were too dim-witted to last through meeting the convicts, let alone two rounds in the Pit. Bravo, Harry Potter. Bravo." He clapped softly.
Harry controlled the twitch in his face that threatened to become a feral snarl. There was no point in letting the man provoke him. Getting angry might loose some wild magic—though likely not, considering he hadn't had any luck so far—but he wouldn't think of a way out of this without a cool head. "I suppose you're simply holding me until Voldemort gets here," he said flatly.
"Voldemort?" the man asked. "Vol-de-mort may get his shot at you eventually, but I'm afraid he wasn't invited on this little excursion. Can't have Dark Lords traipsing around the ship, murdering innocents, now can I?"
Harry snorted. This man was an idiot. "Somehow I don't think not getting an invitation will stop him."
"You certainly aren't the brightest bulb, are you Harry Potter? Ever heard of the Fidelius charm? No, the Dark Lord will have his chance at you when I decide." His voice took on a thoughtful air. "Or perhaps I'll let one of his lackeys have you. What a slap in the face that would be, to have his most precious quarry delivered to his doorstep like a loyal cat with a dead mouse. I'm sure you know a few of them who received invitations."
Harry blanched.
The man laughed at his expression. "You poor boy. You are much too amusing." He leaned forward suddenly, voice dropping to a morbidly curious whisper. "How much longer do you think you can last, Harry Potter? I think just a day more, and you'll break utterly. What would you do, even now, for a glass of water?"
Harry flinched, imagining the taste of cool liquid, of drinking his fill. It was a physical pain. For a long moment he nearly cried in anguish at the very idea of being able to slake his thirst.
But then the question made him think of something else. Water… His eyes narrowed. If he could get to a large enough body of water, he could slip through to the Other Side, and escape this place. His heart pounded in his ears, and he only dimly acknowledged his captor's satisfied chuckle.
Even a glass of water would do, if he could spread it out far enough. He swallowed hard, imaging spilling the hypothetical glass on the floor rather than drinking it as his parched throat and pounding head demanded.
Then another thought assailed him. Was he strong enough to make the trip through to the other side, and to make the journey back to the mainland? What if dementors showed up again? Could he cast a Patronus without a wand? Could he do it even with a wand in this state?
A crunching sound made him look up. His captor was eating an apple.
And that was it.
In that instant, Harry was possessed by such a violent, dark rage that he could have killed the man. The ropes binding him began to smoke.
The man didn't seem to notice. "Anyhow, I just thought I'd let you know that after your wonderful exhibition yesterday, everyone who knows about you wants to meet you, and everyone who doesn't know about you wants to find out. But I thought I would let one of my good friends meet you first. You see, I owe him something of a favor, and he seemed ever so eager to see you in person."
Harry stared at him, almost too angry to feel any fear.
The man nodded cheerfully, still chewing. "I think you may have even met him before. You do know Lucius Malfoy, don't you?"
Harry felt as if the life was draining out of him. Wriggle out of this one, Potter, he mocked himself. It's only what you deserve for falling for the same thing twice. Good old Lucius will be able to finally deliver that 'sticky end' he always promised.
His mouth tasted like ash. His veins felt like ice. His heart pounding in his temple matched the other man's footsteps as he paced toward him.
"I thought so." A gloved hand patted him on the shoulder. "If it's any consolation, Harry Potter, this really isn't about you, although you have made things so much more interesting." The hand moved to lightly slap his face, and Harry didn't even have the fire left to flinch away. "You're just a chip. No, it's about proving something to someone who thought you were untouchable. It's about proving that I can pull you out from under your pithy protections any time I choose, and that he's a sorry excuse for a wizard because I find it so—very—easy." He punctuated each word with a smack, and his apple-scented breath rolled over Harry.
Then he stood, and strolled to the door. "Lucius should be here in a few hours. Feel free to surprise me again, Harry Potter." Just before he stepped out, he tossed the half-eaten fruit over his shoulder, and it rolled to a stop several feet away from Harry. "Horrible apple," the man commented with a smile in his voice. Then he was gone.
Harry stared for a long time at that apple; he memorized the dull gleam of its green skin and every contour of the crescent bites taken out of it. His mind seemed to have ground to a halt, finally, reduced to buzzing around in a tiny circle like a gnat. What could he do? Nothing. He was going to die. Lucius Malfoy was going to come kill him, and it would be so… very… easy.
Harry pounded his already throbbing head on the floor, and began to seethe. How could he be so helpless? He was supposed to be learning to stand up to Voldemort, and yet at the moment he couldn't even summon the energy to scoot over and eat that bloody apple.
He really needed to, if he was to have any chance at all. Even if it was by the tiniest sliver of probability, he knew he would make it no further if he didn't suck it up and get some sustenance. The idea of eating it—of picking it up off the floor, after it had been chewed on by that man—was such an affront to Harry's pride that for a hysterical moment, he considered dying rather than lowering himself to that. And his captor had known it.
"Bugger," he muttered hoarsely, and began to thrash and wriggle his way across the hardwood floor.
He ate the whole thing—seeds and all—in slow, deliberate bites. He was slow and deliberate because he had to be; his hands were tied up. He imagined his captor walking in at that moment, to see him stretched out on his stomach, gnawing at the apple like some kind of big worm, and his veins blazed in embarrassment and anger.
When he'd finished, core and all, he rolled over on his back, uncaring that he was lying on his bound arms, and almost couldn't believe the difference a bit of water, sugar, and fiber made.
He sat up abruptly, and let a wave of dizziness pass. If Lucius Malfoy was coming, he needed to be ready. He needed some kind of weapon—a sharp object, or at least something big and heavy. But first he needed to get these damn ropes off.
They were still smoking slightly, and he briefly tried simply pulling them apart. A few seconds of straining, and nicely singeing his wrists, convinced him that the ropes needed to be weakened just a bit further.
Getting himself angry wasn't difficult—simply parading the events of the last few days through his mind was enough to get his blood boiling. He was being used; he was just a pawn for this blurry-faced bastard to get to someone—Dumbledore, most likely. Dumbledore, who hadn't told him that the imposter problem hadn't been resolved—hadn't given him any updates on the matter at all. Dumbledore, who hadn't told him that Lucius Malfoy had escaped from Azkaban. Dumbledore, who still saw fit to keep Harry in the dark, even when it was increasingly obvious that Harry needed information more than anyone.
Rage built up in him like a slow inferno, and for a moment he was so angry that he forgot what he was even trying to do. The lamp on the floor near the bedside table trembled, before violently exploding outward.
"Oh, brilliant," Harry snarled. Shattering the lamp was very helpful. Luckily, this new complication only added fuel to the fire, and he refocused his anger on the thick ropes that bound his wrists.
At first, nothing happened, which made him want to bash his head against the floor. Why was it so much harder here? Was he just too weak? But then smoke began to trail past his nostrils, and his heart leapt in his chest. Unfortunately, the sudden swooping happiness doused his rage, and the heat petered off again.
Harry growled, battling with himself. He was mad again, but what would stop him from cheering up the minute his ropes started burning? He would just have to think both ways, he thought grimly.
He gathered up his rage again, and visualized the ropes burning. When they started smoking again, he ruthlessly quashed the surge of satisfaction, and instead focused on the myriad things that were pissing him off at the moment. Voldemort, Dumbledore, his unnamed captor… Eventually he settled on Lucius Malfoy's smarmy, laughing face, and he was so focused on mentally beating the man to a bloody pulp that it took him a few seconds to notice that the rope had actually burst into flame.
He cursed, ripping his arms apart and sending the pieces of flaming rope flying to opposite corners of the room. He flexed his hands with a sigh and watched with mild amazement as the healthy flames slowly died on their own rather than setting fire to the bed hangings.
Well, maybe that answered the question of why he hadn't set the place alight a long time ago. It was a wooden ship, he reasoned, and likely to have some kind of damping wards.
Merlin his shoulders ached. He rose to his feet. He needed water, and a wand. Maybe he could lift one off one of the wizards outside, and then… well, if worst came to worst, they were out on the ocean; he could always jump overboard.
He suddenly wondered what would happen if he came out on the Other Side over the ocean. Would he just fall back through? He briefly pictured himself getting tossed back and forth in an endless loop, before shaking his head and reaching for the doorknob. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. First—
Harry jumped back with a yelp as the door flashed to life, singeing his hand.
"Agh," he growled. "Course there's security on the door."
Trying to Accio the door had similarly disappointing results.
He turned away and paced for a moment. His eyes landed on another lamp. Crossing to it, he quickly unscrewed the hood and the wick and carried it over to the bare floor near the door. Please work, he prayed silently, and poured it out.
It spread across the planks, thick and viscous, and Harry wasted no time in trying to reach through it. His fingers encountered only solid wood, and he fastened the need to escape in his mind before trying again. Again, nothing.
He cursed half-heartedly. He hadn't had much hope in the first place—it was oil, after all, not water. Plus, he had no way of knowing if the puddle was too shallow.
Well, he had other options yet. With another flash of inspiration, he banished the puddle of oil, pushing it until it pooled at the threshold of the door. His anger was quick and willing this time, and with a snap of his fingers, the puddle ignited.
The roar of flames lit up the room, and Harry suddenly had high hopes that, security wards or no, that door would come down. But the flames crackled against bursts of blue light, and the door remained unscathed. To make matters worse, the oil was quickly spent, and the flames, without such easy fuel, were quickly suppressed.
Harry quashed the urge to destroy something else, but it was difficult. All he'd accomplished was to fill the room with smoke. Lucius wouldn't even need to do anything; by the time he got there, Harry would have already finished himself off by way of asphyxiation.
"Damn," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. Now he was out of ideas. His eyes briefly grazed the window on the other side of his room, but he knew that, with the position of the hallway, there was no way that view wasn't an illusion. The glass was likely warded in any case, and without a wand, Harry had no hope of doing any damage to it even if it wasn't. It all came back to that; he needed his wand. He needed any wand.
It was like that riddle—how do you get out of a room with no windows and no doors, if the only things inside are a wooden table and a saw?
Harry hated riddles, almost as much as he hated problems with no solutions. He sat in the middle of the floor, partly to think, and partly to get his head out of the hanging smoke. He found himself looking at a little gilded table by the door, as a tiny thought niggled in the back of his mind. Furrowing his brow, he remembered something that convict, Toliman, had said. What was it? He'd been talking about improvising or something…
"Wizards are magical creatures, yes?"
Harry frowned, rubbing his forehead. Why was he remembering that? His gaze moved distractedly over the table again, with its spindly little legs, and he froze.
Wands were made of wood, with a core taken from a magical creature.
Wizards were magical creatures.
Harry stared at the little table, pulse pounding in his ears. He knew a little bit about crafting wands, just from his own simple curiosity, Hermione's more obsessive brand of curiosity, and his brief encounters with Ollivander himself. He tried to think of a reason why it wouldn't theoretically work, and couldn't. Fleur Delacour's wand, back in fourth year, had been Veela hair, and she was part Veela, right? If anything, it should work fairly well, and it certainly couldn't be worse than nothing. It would probably have to be blood, since he didn't have the time or the skill to properly set anything else…
Harry shot to his feet decisively and moved to the table by the door. He just needed a leg, and he reached down to brace it with his left hand while kicking the joint with his right foot. It separated with a satisfying crack, making the little piece of furniture wobble sadly on its remaining three legs.
He examined it carefully—it was surprisingly heavy, and pitch black beneath all the gilding, but it was some kind of wood—and frowned for a moment as he considered how to hollow it out. He remembered the bloodied nail in his pocket, and pulled it out.
"I wish you were a screw," he told it after a moment. Unfortunately, the nail wasn't listening, and remained a nail.
Well, there was more than one way to dig a hole. After a few abortive attempts, Harry managed to levitate the nail, and after a few moments more in which he screwed his face up with angry concentration, the pointed end of the metal began to glow a deep red.
He was getting rather good at this, he thought, as he slowly burned out the center of the table leg. A grim smile tugged at his mouth. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't know what hit him.