Diclaimer: Not mine. How many times do I have to say it?
6.
Hermione asks no more questions after that. As time passes you stand, unable to sit still any longer. Your daydreaming has awoken a desperate longing inside you, and for the first time since you awoke in the cell, magicless but not alone, you feel the need to act. You pace the length of the room once, twice. At the end of your third pass, you give the door a vicious kick. Snape is at your side in a moment, grabbing you tightly and yanking you away from the door.
"Potter! What was that for? Of all the stupid imbecilic things…" The ex-spy trails off, muttering angrily to himself. You blink at the man, astonished.
He whirls on you after a second, his eyes angry and slightly wild. "Clearly, by the vacant Gryffindor stare you are giving me, you have no idea how the Dark Lord works!" He snaps. "And you were the supposed Savior of Us All, the Boy Who Lived. Merlin."
"Well, who else has ever stood up to the bastard, hmm? I know more about him then you think, Snape!" You snap back reflexively. You are used to people doubting your abilities, after all.
Snape's eyes burn. "I know more then you should ever wish to know, boy." He snarls, and you step back unconsciously. "The Dark Lord only likes to play when his prey can fight back. Gryffindork actions like that" he motions towards the door "are invitations for him to come and play!"
You glare back, too caught in the heat of the argument now to see your own mistakes. You're tired of being locked up in this cell, tired of being helpless. "Yeah, well I can stand up to whatever Tom can throw at me!" You shout, ignoring the pain in your throat and the way Hermione's eyes widen.
"No, Potter-" Snape's words, hastened by fear rooted in familiarity, are too late. The handle on the door turns, clicks open. In the hallway stands the Dark Lord, a smirk plastered across his serpentine face.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here? The little lion is roaring, isn't he? He thinks he has claws. Poor kitty." He drawls, voice dripping with malice.
Your eyes lock, green and red. Rage bubbles dangerously inside of you, fueled by the desperation that clogs your throat. You can no longer feel Hermione's hand gripping your shoulder tightly, nor her little sound that warns you, begs you not to do anything dangerously stupid. You have found an outlet for your rage, the source of all your problems.
An animalistic growl escapes from somewhere deep in your gut and suddenly you are lunging, hands out stretched for the man who murdered your parents, who killed Cedric Diggory, who took away your magic and your free will. You want him dead, right now. Nothing else matters.
If you were to see yourself at that moment, you doubt you'd recognize the filthy, wild-eyed creature you have become.