Harry veins and blood caught fire and he screamed. For it to stop. For help. For anyone to help.

He trashed and twisted, his nails catching his skin, his face and drawing lines of blood.

Help me.

Please.

Lord Voldemort gazed into the dying fire. The quietness of his study a sanctuary of his mind.

The texts he'd been perusing held no answers to his confusion. Neither the Malfoy library, nor any other of his servant's seemed to contain any more information than he had already gathered before undertaking the ritual.

Magic was a fickle thing, mostly experienced rather than discovered. Secrets were often jealously guarded before getting lost to time.

He understood the need. It was just.

Frustrating.

Nagini shifted from her coiled knot. Hissing slightly in confusion. He moved a soothing hand toward the reptile, ready to inquire about the source of her discomfort, when he felt it.

It was like a window at the back of his mind had been blown open, curtains flapping widely in the wind of an incoming storm. It felt like a lifeline trashing loose.

The Dark Lord closed his eyes, focusing his attention on the deep recess of his mind and their shifting shadows.

It appeared the pooling darkness has concealed much deeper abysses than he'd thought.

'Please…' the whispered echo pleaded again and again, reaching out to him. Coiling around him in desperation. In need.

And he grabbed onto it.

A searing pain from his forearm diverted Rookwood's attention from the Potter boy's torture. Gasping, he caught onto the dirty rag that passed as his sleeve and yanked it up to reveal The Mark.

It was a deep inky black, fresh as the day his master had seared it into his flesh. He caressed the shape with a shaking thumb, before hungrily turning his eyes back to the scene in front of him.

Just in time to see the Auror crashing out of Potter's cell.

'Accidental Magic, eh Potter?' The man sneer, getting up from the floor. 'Azkaban's not yet got to you in earnest? No matter, it shall soon enough.'

The burning was already fading from Rookwood's wrist, and he pressed his hand to it as to keep the burning from slipping away.

The auror raised his wand again, fuelled by rage.

'Cruc…'

'No!' Another voice shouted, and a stunner hit Potter's attacker in the back.

Another auror stepped onto the scene, looking flabbergasted and shocked. Rookwood thought he recognised the man. He belonged to the few that were affected in a permanent fashion to the fortress. A position that generally meant they had performed rather poorly in the line of duty.

The old unspeakable's gears slowly started to turn, after years of disuse.

The Potter boy was important. From what he could piece together, he was likely to become a precious asset if he played his cards right. Which for now, meant keeping him alive.

Until he could be presented to their master.

Auror Cleave dashed toward the sobbing, wrecked form of the young prisoner and turned him around.

'Oh Merlin,' he gasped, taking in the bone-thinness of the teenager, the clotted blood and the rasped breathing. 'Merlin, oh Merlin what am I to do.' He moaned.

He'd thought being posted in Azkaban had been hitting the bottom of his career barrel, but he could now perceive a whole new range of disgrace available to him. Harry Potter was branded infamous by the Ministry, but he was still a hot political and public point. If it went out an auror had assaulted him…

A dark, low chuckle sounded from behind him.

'Well, well, well. What an interesting time to be a guest of Azkaban.'

Cleaver turned to look which of the prisoners was talking.

'Shut up Rookwood. I am not in the mood for one of your games.' He spat.

'No, I can see you aren't. Much too busy thinking about the backlash of Potter's death.' The low voice of the Death Eater rasped.

'The boy aren't dead.' He retorted.

'Oh. He isn't. Yet.'

An eery quiet fell over the corridor, as every inmate that still had the mind stilled to listen in on the conversation. Rookwood moved from the shadows of his cell to seat by the bars, looking nonchalantly at the auror and the boy cradled in his arms.

'Look at him,' he croaked, 'he doesn't eat. Hardly sleeps. It was only a matter of days before he died. And your friend here helped.' His dark sunken eyes looked into the auror quivering ones. 'What do you think will happed when he dies? Hum?'

Cleaver swallowed, his eyes darting from the boy, to his colleague still unconscious form. Potter was too important for his death not to be noticed. There would be an investigation. And magic as black as Collins' had just casted would be picked upon for sure.

It would turn into an enormous scandal, one he was sure he would be caught up into. If the boy could only survive a little longer…

'What can I do…' He whispered.

Rookwood cleared his throat and drummed his fingers idly on the grim covered stone, drawing patterns. Linking lines.

'He would do better if he had someone to watch over him. Force him to eat and take his chocolate rations. He is wasting away because he lacks an anchor. The dementors are affecting him too much.' He added idly, as an afterthought.

Cleaver barked a laugh at the incongruous idea, that Rookwood was suggesting. He was going to retort he would be a fool to place Harry in a cell with one of them, but the jolt had gotten the boy out of his stupor.

The next moment Potter was sobbing wracked, clutching his forehead and rolling out of his arms. His hands were clawing at his scar that blazed red with blood against the unnatural blueish whiteness of his skin. He screamed, his eyes seemingly wide and unseeing, his pupil blown.

He looked like a wraith and suddenly Cleaver found himself not quite eager to think longer on the situation.

Behind his back Rookwood smiled.

'Think about it. Even if you got caught, you could pass it off as a blunder. Saying you thought it was for the best. Nobody can really reproach you to do your job? Sharing cell is common practice on the upper levels, to help the prisoners cop. You would just be applying protocol.'

'Just applying protocol…' The auror repeated, entranced by the sight of the wasted teenager.

It looked like the boy had spent his outburst, and was now limping against a wall, like a stringless puppet. He approached cautiously.

'We are going to put you with someone else, Potter. Don't try anything funny.'

He raised him and half walked, half dragged the doll like boy out. Cleaver's eyes immediately found Rookwood's. Who was smiling a wretched smile, that twisted his guts.

'Potter will be choosing whom he'll join,' he stated immediately, anticipating Rookwood demand the boy be placed with him. He had no idea what the man's game was, but he jolly well wouldn't be playing it to a tee.

'Kid,' he shook Potter gently, 'kid, with whom do you want to go? You need to pick a cellmate.'

There was a cackle that busted from behind them, delighted and gleeful. It froze Cleaver's blood, but seemed to draw the kid's attention from the folded recess of his mind. He perked up skittishly from behind the auror, looking for the origin of the noise.

Bellatrix Lestrange cooed, delighted in the attention.

'Hellllooo little one. Aren't you the cutest!' She called, pressing her face to the bars and passing her bone thin arms through, beckoning.

'Bellatrix…' Rookwood growled in warning.

But it was too late. Harry's attention had been caught and he was slowly moving forward, or rather, limping, toward the woman.

'That's it, don't be afraid. Aunt Bella will take care of you. Wouldn't Sirius be proud that his cousin takes care of his beloved godson? Hum?' She hummed.

Sirius… Sirius… Harry loved this man, he could remember he did. And something in the deep, sunken dark eyes of the woman was familiar.

He brought a shaking hand closer, and touched tentatively her extended fingertips.

Bellatrix's eyes widened when they touched, and she laughed some more in manic delight. She brough Harry closer and hugged him through the bars, moving her fingers to comb his hair like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Sick to the stomach, Cleaver was starting to rethink his decision.

He sighed.

'Bellatrix Lestrange. You will take a vow not to harm Harry James Potter.'

She looked up from her kneeled position, a manic light dancing in her eyes. She let go of the boy to help herself up, dragging her frame painstakingly with the help of the bars. The kid whimpered at the loss and started shivering.

She pressed her face to the bars, to be as close to the auror's face as possible, and seethed:

'I swear on my magic, not to purposefully and wilfully hurt Harry James Potter so long as he remains in my care within the boundaries of this cell.'

She gave him the most disturbing smile, as magic whipped around to seal their fate.

'So mote it be.'