CHAPTER THREE

A/Note: This fic was SO much fun to write, I hope everyone enjoys it! Be sure to read the bottom and vote, that's how I'll write chapter four... so vote well, because this is a crucial turning point for the fic! Bon soir, dear readers.

PS: This chapter is DRACO'S p-o-v.

It all hurt too much to describe.

The pain was physical, but no torture had been inflicted.

No, why would they have to curse him when they already knew his secret?

All he could see was one face, a face he hated and adored.

A face that was both pleasure and pain;

A face that hated him with all its might:

Harry's face.

He knew every dimension, every angle of that angelic face, bent on destroying Draco. He didn't know how, but through some complex Legilimency, they had bent it into his skull.

Harry smiling down as Draco screamed in pain.

Harry laughing as Draco called for him.

Harry shuddering with disgust when Draco reached out for him.

Harry… Harry… Harry…

Harry Potter filled his every waking moment.

Some were real memories, horribly contorted.

That time in their first year, when he first met Harry and wanted to be friends. In the new memory, Harry sneered at him and spat in his face, and Draco crumpled to the floor.

Second year, Draco had threatened Harry's friend, the Mudblood, and in the new memory, Harry slapped his face. Draco cried out, apologized countless times, but Harry stood still, a grin fixed on his face.

Third year, Draco had taunted Harry in class, and on the Quidditch field. In the new memory, Harry cast a Cruciatus spell that hit Draco straight in the heart. He blacked out, and the swarm of laughing faces was transfixed to one dark-haired, green-eyed head.

Fourth year, Draco had made those stupid badges "Potter stinks." How immature of him, stupid, stupid. In the new memory, Harry slowly, repeatedly shook his head as Draco fell to the floor, buried in those hated badges.

Fifth year, when Harry was suffering so much, of course the stupid fifteen-year-old Draco had to choose THAT year to betray Harry about that gang Harry was forming, all because Draco felt left out. In the new memory, Harry stood over a crumpled Draco and whispered fierce reprimands. Strangely, this was the only "memory" Draco could bare, because he got to hear Harry's voice, and his own, repeating "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry" in a never-ending chorus.

Sixth year, Harry had gone off to fight Voldemort with the redhead and the mudblood, and the memory was of his becoming a Death Eater, only Harry was there, kneeling over him, scraping at the Mark with disdain. Draco pleaded with him every time. Nothing happened, of course.

And so, with each passing day, hour, minute, second, longer than the last, the seconds of Draco's life ticked away as he did not reveal anything new to his interrogators. What was the point, anyway? They could not give him what he wanted, and he would never cease to be tortured, even if they did release him.

Tortured endlessly by the knowledge that Harry would never be his, and he might as well die.

(And now we leave Draco on the floor for a moment, to return to Harry's Point of View)

Heading past the Welcome Desk, Harry wished he'd brought some Polyjuice Potion, or the Invisibility Cloak. Even Disillusioned, he stuck out like a real Golden Boy. People stopped working for a second when he turned past their station, like they were expecting him to show up. He tensed, and began to run for the lift. He slid in behind an elderly old witch wearing a Magical Maintenance vest, who was luckily headed for the very floor he wanted. Apparently they chose deaf people to clean the floor filled with shrieks and moaning that Harry had earlier heard. For he was determined that he HAD heard them, and that Dan used a wordless "Muffliato" earlier. The questions concerning that floor were too much to bear. Questions that had him running back to the Ministry at close to 2 AM on a Thursday morning.

He held his breath as he slid out of the lift behind the elderly witch, and even secretly helped her get the cart out, full of cleaning supplies. She began washing down the lift window, and Harry set off for Room 17, still holding his breath. He wondered why all was silent. Muffled snores, a few yawns, and one or two curse words were all he heard. Then, as though a charm had lifted, there was the moaning again. Not ghostly, or even human. It sounded as though some animal was being tortured, and Harry, ever the hero, quickened his pace in its direction. He had no idea what he'd do when and if he reached it.

"Alohomora" didn't work, but a foot in the door did. So often wizards overlooked brute strength in favor of magical defenses. He seemed to have awoken the inhabitant, because as he stood there, beside the open door, looking over his shoulder for a guard that was sure to be there, all noise stopped. Silence eerier than any scream reigned on the forbidden floor. And Harry was afraid to turn around, afraid of what he'd see.

So finally, with every ounce of courage the Lion possessed, he turned on his heels and brought his gaze to the prisoner of the cell.

OK, I'll take a poll: Who's Point of View should the next chapter be?

Type A for Harry

Type B for Draco