"Look at me."
He looked down into the snow. It had started snowing at twilight, and already there was enough to soak into his jeans, enough to illuminate the blood everywhere in night. The air was freezing, making the rope binding his legs all the tighter. He sighed. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
"Look at me, damn you, or I curse you with your own wand."
They had camped on the edges of a forest in northern Scotland, near an old castle Hermione had thought was linked to Slytherin. She was right. He smiled, in spite of the wracking pain. She was always right. He should have remembered that before.
"After I torture you with it, I might snap it in pieces."
Have fun with that. He shifted, groping blindly for the knot that held his hands. There might be a chance. There was no dark magic in the rope that Death Eaters conjured to ensnare their victims. Once created, it was no different from any other woven material. He could work with that. Unlike the wards on the place they had tried to go, barriers designed to cut and tear. He waited.
He heard footsteps, soft and slow. Whispers caught and carried away in the chill wind. Then a scream.
He had ignored the right advice. Again. He should have learned by now. Walk away. Let sleeping dogs lie. Get out while you can. He blood was icing over his skin, a bitter reminder of chance. The coin rising, turning, always turning. It reaches the peak of its ark, and falls. Like the snow falling into his hands, and melting in the red slick.
Footsteps again. They approached from the side, and he instinctively knew it was not the one who had spoken earlier. The voice was soft, sibilant. "I love that smell. The pulse of life through you. The circuit of liquid, flowing and pumping. It energizes me."
There. He pushed a wet fingernail through the gap, searching for the loop. The rope was brittle. Like his wand, pressed into the back of his neck. He found it, and pulled.
"The man you just spoke to was far too bitter… I suppose I can only expect it from a mindless wretch."
He knew they were still close, judging by the slight whimper he heard to his left, and the slight groan from his right. It was his fault they were there now. He had shaken of Ron's arm, pulling him away from the sounds beyond the door. It was probably broken now.
"But your friends… they are young. Unscarred."
His hands were free. But still he gazed into the bloody snow, as the fury rose.
"Yes. The anger makes your heart work harder, doesn't it? It allures me."
He felt into his back pocket. And found what he looked for.
"Let's work it harder." The pain came, white hot, searing him to the bone, burning and raging. It blossomed from his own wand, down his neck, and expanding out through his body. He shook with it, as the agony scorched through him. But still he held on.
"You're so weak. So defenseless. It's touching. Like your friends."
The pain was gone. Pushed out by something else. Cold.
"I love it, the taint of your blood on the air. Let's taint it with the fragrance of two more. You can watch."
The coin rose again, turning once. Then it dropped.
"The irony… You bet everything on your wand. The thing that would give you everything left you with nothing. "
Harry Potter stood up, bloody snow cascading from his tattered clothes. "No. The irony is you did." His hand came forward, and it was over.
Switchblades are quick.
Harry bent forward, his hand grasping his wand as the vampire fell. He looked to his friends, moaning on the ground. With a little magic, they came back.
"Are you two OK?"
They nodded, Ron managing a grin. He nodded back to behind Harry. "Nice one back there."
Harry laughed grimly. "I had to do something. " He was silent, staring into the snow. It had stopped falling now. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened to me."
Saying nothing, Hermione stepped forward and pulled Harry into a hug. "They played a cruel trick, that's all." She pulled back to look at him. "You'll find your family again, Harry."
They left together, in the dawn.