Scraping.
It was the scraping that woke him up. It was the scraping that brought him back to the land of the living. Harry didn't even remember succumbing to unconsciousness. He remembered being at the Ministry. He remembered supporting Hermione. He remembered Mercer's words of encouragement. He could picture himself apparating away. And he could picture the two people who'd somehow been waiting for his arrival, the two people who'd been so happy to see him. And then…
…then he'd woken up.
Harry found himself in an empty room. It wasn't as dingy as one might have expected when they were evidently kidnapped, carrying a note of wealth that came as a surprise. The floorboards, as polished as they were, gave that away. The rest of the room had been stripped of any sign of personality, the furniture presumably removed to leave Harry in a dauntingly barren space. It left him feeling more alone than he'd already naturally felt, as if his unorthodox cell had been designed for his sole presence.
His first port of call was to try to move, which seemed like the reasonable next step. But he quickly discovered that his arms and legs were bound in manacles, preventing him from escaping. Harry got the sense that they were more than typical steel, judging from the way his own magic seemed to be muted. Were the chains restricting his powers? Were they locking away his magic just as much as they imprisoned him? He had to admit that it was a worthwhile tactic, leaving him at a loss as to what he could possibly do.
Scraping.
The scraping caught his attention once more and he realised in his dazed state that he wasn't actually as alone as he'd first thought. There was a figure messing with those bonds, seemingly tightening them or perhaps ensuring that they were still secure. It was a man. A young man with blonde hair who currently had his back to Harry. His machinations were done with shaky hands, which puzzled Harry more than anything. He knew why he was there. He didn't know why his captors would be nervous about being around him.
Until the man turned ever so slightly and showed his face.
"Malfoy?"
The Slytherin teenager looked awful to put it bluntly. He might have even been in a worse state than Harry, not that there were any mirrors around to judge that comparison. Malfoy's face was gaunt and his eyes were hooded, suggesting that his recent sleep had been fitful. The boy had always sported a pale complexion, but it was on a whole other level now. What had he been through since they'd last seen one another? Was Harry feeling any sympathy towards him, seeing as he was presumably involved in his captor?
They hadn't interacted since their fourth year at Hogwarts, which Harry had viewed as a blessing at the time. Following the attack at the graveyard, and Malfoy Senior's crumbling reputation, Draco had been taken away from the wizarding school. Owing to their spiteful relationship in the past, Harry had never stopped to consider what that meant for the other boy. He was now getting his answer, and it was perhaps worse than he could have ever envisaged.
"You're not supposed to be talking, Potter," Malfoy murmured.
"What's…what's going on?"
"Let me put it another way: I'm not supposed to be talking to you."
"What are you doing?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes but, even in his delirious condition, Harry was able to tell that it was different to the snide expressions he'd been subjected to in the past. It was as if Malfoy's heart wasn't truly in the endeavour. It was as if his passion for being cruel to Harry had been beaten into a flickering flame, rather than the roaring fire that had consumed him at Hogwarts. Harry might have been grateful for the change, if it hadn't come at such a price.
"He wants you being constantly monitored," Malfoy explained, seemingly acting against his better judgement. "We all know that you have the uncanny ability to get yourself out of tight spots, but he isn't going to allow that to happen this time around. It's up to people like me - people he trusts - to make sure you stay in this room."
Which suggested that his captors didn't believe the restraints would be enough to hold him. Again, Harry wished that he could celebrate his notoriety. He wished he could revel in the sensation that these wizards and witches feared him to such an extent. But what was there to smile about? He'd been torn away from his home. He'd been separated from his friends and family. A sinking pit of realisation was dawning on him that he'd never see those people again.
And, if that wasn't bad enough, he was apparently stuck with Draco Malfoy.
"Who's ordering you?"
"Who do you think, Potter?" Malfoy spat. "The Dark Lord."
"He's here?"
"Stop asking me questions!"
"Why?"
"Because…if he finds out I've let anything slip…he'll…"
"...punish you?"
"He'll remind me as to how I went wrong. That's not a punishment. That's education."
"Do you really believe that? Do you actually want to be here?"
Malfoy hesitated and that was all the answer Harry needed. There was that growing sense of sympathy for the other boy, but then Harry saw him tightening the chains and any positive thoughts drifted away. If Malfoy wanted out, then he could have found away. He hadn't been placed in steel bindings. He hadn't been attacked by a series of spells and subsequently abducted. He was there out of his own volition. Did that mean he could come and go as he pleased? Could he contact the people who were no doubt looking for Harry?
He sincerely doubted Malfoy would do anything to help him.
"I won't tell you again. Stop talking to me. You'll only get us both hurt in the process, and where would that leave us?"
"I don't think I've got anything to lose. But does the same apply to you?"
Malfoy stared at him for a beat and, for that solitary moment, Harry wondered whether he'd actually been able to break through his steely exterior. But then he was standing up, sending one last pitiful look at his defeated counterpart, and was stalking out of the room. Harry hadn't expected anything else to happen, but it still hurt to see him leave. It still hurt to hear the bolt locking on the door and to see the exit glow, hinting at the wards in play. It still hurt to be achingly, terrifyingly alone.
xxxxxxxxxx
Harry had fallen in and out of consciousness following Malfoy's surprise appearance. Since the room he was trapped in didn't come with any windows, it was difficult to tell just how much time had passed. Hours? Days? Harry was sure that that was part of the torment, making him wonder how long he'd been imprisoned. How was the outside world reacting? How were the likes of Sirius and Hermione coping? If enough time had gone by, had they already moved on?
He'd come to accept a few things whenever he was able to cling onto staying awake. Whatever spell he'd been hit with had sapped him of his energy, lessening his chances of escape. His wand was nowhere to be seen as well, which didn't come as much of a surprise. And, whenever he opened his eyes, his captors didn't make the mistake of being in the room when it happened. Which all suggested that they were still intimidated by what he could do.
It was a slender solace to cling onto.
"Wake up, you little brat!"
He could have chosen to be happy that things were at least changing. The sharp kick to his ribs was enough to wake him with a start, Harry gasping for breath following the blow. It was difficult, however, to be too pleased about having company. He would have much preferred continued solitude, seeing as he knew what was bound to come. There was only one reason for him to have visitors, and that surely revolved around his stay coming to a premature end.
The person who'd given him the rude awakening was the same woman he'd seen in the field. Her hair was just as wild as he remembered and her angular face accentuated the feral nature of her gaze. And yet her identity still remained an elusive mystery to Harry. He felt like there was a reason for him to know, for her face to be recognisable. He blamed the conditions for him not being as sharp as usual, even if he wished he could have his wits about him.
But what was the point when he was going to die?
The woman wasn't the only one in the room. Harry's presence had prompted a crowd to greet him. Barty Crouch Junior hovered nearby, licking his lips at the sight of him. Lucius Malfoy formed part of the collective too, which explained his son's involvement. That was one less puzzle for Harry to solve, at least. There weren't many positives that he could cling onto and, when those revolved around Draco Malfoy, that exemplified just how dire the situation was.
A small, weak part of him considered whether he actually needed his wand. He'd recently proved that his powers didn't need to stem solely from that particular object. It was perhaps the one thing that could encourage him to keep fighting, to not accept death so easily. But what was he supposed to do when the manacles limited his already diminished magic? And how was he supposed to take on the intimidating man before him if he wasn't at the peak of his abilities.
Lord Voldemort.
The Dark Lord finished the congregation. Once the woman scurried away from Harry, it was Voldemort who stood closest to him, leading the procession as had to be expected. Even in his weakened state, Harry refused to look away from him. No matter how much his scar stung and his limbs ached. No matter how much he wanted his friends and loved ones to arrive in the nick of time. But if these people had felled Matthew in cold blood, what chance did he have of making it through the same ordeal?
"Harry Potter," Voldemort said quietly. "It is so nice of you to join us."
"It's not as if…as if I had much of a choice."
It was quite apparent that his nemesis had expected Harry to be less resistant, since Voldemort was flaring his poor excuse for nostrils in dissatisfaction. Perhaps that was the reason why they'd waited so long to enact this confrontation. Maybe they'd thought Harry would be suitably broken, too damaged to offer much of a fight. He refused to make it that easy for them, regardless of the acceptance he'd come to have as to his approaching fate.
"Were you not taken by surprise by the arrival of my faithful followers?"
"I have to admit that I wasn't expecting it. How did you do it? How did you know where I was going to apparate?"
"Because it wasn't truly your choice to make. My dear Barty utilised his unmatched skill when it comes to potion making, the same talents that helped bring about my long awaited return."
"Polyjuice," Harry ground out through gritted teeth.
"Once the original Morlan Mercer was captured, it was easy to take his place," Crouch explained. "All it took was a well timed confundus at the point of your apparition, and you could be directed to exactly where we wanted you. It was so easy in fact that someone else could do it for me, allowing me to be present for your pre-arranged arrival. I couldn't miss the look on your face when you found out what had gone wrong."
The woman giggled as if she were a child, not a grown adult. "It's one of my favourite memories! I'll be sure to replay it over and over again in a pensieve."
"Enough, Bella," Voldemort snapped impatiently.
Things started to click into place. Bella. Bellatrix. One of the escapees from Azkaban prison on that fateful day. He'd seen her name in the Prophet, but it hadn't carried such weight back then. Perhaps she was one of the people responsible for Matthew's death. What if she'd been the one to do it? What if she'd been the one to rob the world of his friend's life? She appeared to be suitably high ranking amongst the Death Eaters, which suggested she could have been given the responsibility. Harry doubted he had ever felt such anger towards another person, and he pitifully tried to fight against his bonds, wanting any chance that came his way to end her life just as she'd done to Matthew.
Voldemort smirked. "Do you finally recognise her?"
"Lestrange," Harry growled.
The woman in question bowed theatrically. "What's the matter, Potty? Missing your friend? If I'm reliving memories, I'll be able to show the one where I struck him down. Poor little Mormont. He tried to be brave. But he was practically crying by the end of it!"
Again, Harry struggled to break free, the hatred towards Bellatrix overriding his lethargy. "You're only brave because I'm locked up!"
"What would you do if you were free?" Voldemort wondered. "Would you give into your rage? If you had your wand at hand, would you strike her down without a second thought?"
The Dark Lord sounded particularly intrigued by the prospect, so much so that Harry almost thought he was going to be allowed to test his skills. Voldemort was precisely the sort of person who'd be willing to sacrifice one of his own to quench his curiosity. Would he take joy in Harry killing Bellatrix where she stood? Would it signify that the two of them were more alike than Harry cared to admit? And yet he struggled to care about those personal dilemmas when Matthew's apparent murderer was gloating in front of him.
"I wouldn't need my wand. I'd do it with my bare hands."
That was seemingly what the woman wanted to hear, because she started to cackle and clap her hands in delight. It was easy to tell that she wasn't in her right mind, which was presumably a side effect of her stint in Azkaban for so many years, but that just made her all the more dangerous. There was no telling what she'd do from one moment to the next.
"He's even more entertaining than I thought he'd be!" Bellatrix declared.
"It is a shame, then, that the entertainment has to come to a premature end," Voldemort said. "In the past, I have often stalled in killing you, Harry. That has allowed you to escape my clutches. But not this time. There doesn't need to be a grand ceremony. There doesn't need to be a crowd or a public spectacle. Your death will come with little ignominy, a side note in the history books that will cover my glorious return to power."
"Is the speech over with yet?" Harry asked bitterly.
"I applaud your unrelenting, foolish bravery. But I think you should know, before you die, what will happen afterwards. Your broken body will be paraded for all to see. It shall be taken to a public spot, where your friends and loved ones will get to view and finally realise that your pitiful existence has been put to an end. The wider wizarding world will learn beyond doubt that resistance to my influence will lead them towards the same fate. They will be killed in an unassuming room where no one can save them. Do you understand?"
Harry refused to give Voldemort the satisfaction of nodding, regardless of how clear the Dark Lord had been. Harry didn't want to picture the reality he'd been presented with, one in which he wouldn't be present. He could see Sirius being consumed by grief and rage, reliving exactly the same scenario as when Lily and James Potter had perished. Would he throw his life away again in the same fashion? Harry could envisage Hermione dropping to her knees in anguish, torn apart from the two boys she'd cherished. Would she tear herself from magical society if she no longer had them beside her? Would that save her from Voldemort's advance?
"And now, Harry Potter, you shall die."
"No, my Lord."
The voice that entered the fray was a new one. Harry watched as a young woman appeared from her spot in the shadows, having been obscured from his view up to that point. She looked fairly close to his age, which was a surprising detail. It wasn't as if he'd ever seen at Hogwarts, though her involvement with the other dark wizards suggested she hadn't needed the sanctuary of the school. She was confident enough to stride towards Harry's captors, refusing to cower before Voldemort as his followers tended to do.
He observed the woman more closely. The girl, if anything. Harry had the slightest of thoughts that he'd seen her before, though he couldn't place her. Her brown hair was darker than the likes of Hermione's and was cut shorter so that it stopped at her shoulders. Her clothes were just as black as the rest of them, suggesting that a coordinated uniform was in place, the sort of pointless consideration that Harry was only able to make because she'd stopped Voldemort from uttering that fatal curse.
Was she trying to save him?
"You dare interrupt our Lord?" Lucius asked in a seething manner.
"Who does she think she is?" Bellatrix snapped.
Voldemort raised a calm hand. "There is no need to be so confrontational. I am sure that the girl will have a good reason for her intervention. Because she will no doubt understand the…personal ramifications if she is wrong."
"You can't kill him," the woman explained, refusing to back down, no matter how close Lestrange looked to be reaching for her wand.
"How come it is your place to tell the Dark Lord what he can and can't do?" Lucius enquired.
Voldemort flexed his fingers. "Again, Lucius, if I had asked for your input, then I would gratefully accept. Do not tempt me to teach you a lesson. I have explained countless times as to why she is beneficial to our cause, regardless of whether you believe the tales or not. It is not your place to come to your own decisions if they do not align with mine."
Malfoy Senior dutifully bowed his head. "Of course, my Lord."
Harry wondered how one man could survive with his back bent so often. He had seen the Malfoy patriarch be a domineering force, which made it all the more confusing as to how he could be so servile in the face of another man. There was a similar level of fear on his face to the expression Harry had seen on Draco, though it had apparently been dulled by time. The son was getting his first taste of that terror, accounting for the shift in his demeanour.
"I must admit my curiosity towards your unique perspective, Karstark. If you would enlighten us…enlighten me…"
Karstark. That presumably was the name of the woman, who was looking at him with avid interest. It didn't help Harry in his efforts in trying to understand why she was so familiar, seeing as he'd certainly never come across a Karstark before. Was it a pseudonym? A title? Or was he just trying to find any source of hope that his time in the room didn't have to end with his death? If she had been someone from his past, it would have made it possible that she was there to rescue him.
The fact that she was nothing more than a perplexing stranger killed those aspirations before they'd barely sprouted.
What was interesting to see was just how much Voldemort apparently appreciated her perspective. There were a miniscule number of people who the Dark Lord seemed to tolerate, let alone allowed to speak out of turn. The wizard was fascinated by her, Harry could see that. Almost as fascinated as Harry himself was. It felt like Karstark was a mystery to the Death Eaters, not quite one of their own, judging by the spite that had been thrown at her from the others. Which made her presence there all the more confusing.
She continued her journey towards Harry, going as far as to crouch in front of him. It felt like an incredibly long time since another person had looked him in the eye so astutely, which explained why the act made him so fidgety. Or was that solely down to the intensity of her gaze? Her hazel eyes were flecked ever so slightly with gold, accentuated by the smoky make-up that lined them. It was something that he shouldn't have been picking up on given the circumstances, but Harry couldn't help but be drawn towards her.
He had to admit that, in any other situation, he would have noted her beauty, but such a concept was at odds with the horror of their surroundings. Her face was minutely pointed and angular, her cheekbones sharp and harsh as a result. Harry cursed his brain for choosing now to start picking up on his interest in the fairer sex. There'd obviously been Margot. His mind had often wandered when it came to Hermione as well, though he was never going to own up to that. And the likes of Daphne Greengrass had shown a peculiar fascination towards him since he'd led the school-wide training sessions.
But Karstark was able to keep him in place with a mere look, rendering the chains pointless.
"Killing him would be a foolish mistake," she explained to their small audience.
"You're calling our Lord a fool now?" Crouch complained.
"I know that our Lord is no fool, which is why I expect him to act accordingly now."
There was a steeliness to her tone of voice, which Harry supposed was a key requirement when you were dealing with such foreboding people. And yet her accent was soft, carrying a northern twang that had been obscured by a time spent further south. It reminded him of Hermione's accent, in truth, with the refinement it possessed. That was a thought that hurt Harry dearly as he considered whether he would ever hear his friend's voice again.
"There's a darkness within the boy," Karstark continued. "A massing of power that could prove…problematic if not dealt with properly."
That was enough to make Harry feel nervous, even more so that he already was. What was she picking up on? Was he supposed to be worried about that power too? He tried to consider what she was sensing. Had she somehow detected the build up of pure magic he'd been working on? Was she about to reveal all the training he'd been through over the past years? If Voldemort was informed of such a force, then it would ensure that that source of magic was no longer the 'power he knows not', removing the one advantage Harry had thought he'd possessed in the fight.
"What is it?" Voldemort asked, sounding surprisingly on edge.
Harry couldn't blame him for that, seeing as he was going through the same sensation. But the Dark Lord had been foiled countless times. Even someone like him must have suffered from doubts. Was another stumbling block about to be presented to him? Perhaps he'd start to believe that he would never be able to defeat Harry, since so many factors tended to stand in his way. It was a nice possibility to dream about, but one that Harry didn't think was going to last.
"I'm not entirely certain," Karstark admitted. "I would need to do a proper examination. If you'd allow me to, my Lord."
He bowed his head in acquiescence. Harry thought that meant he was being given a stay of execution, that the woman would take him away so that she could poke and prod his body with needles. It was, at the very least, a better immediate fate than what had been presented to him a few short moments ago, which fully exemplified how terrible his life currently was. And he wasn't even going to get that minimal slice of luck.
Karstark took a step back, still looking at him, still keeping him in place with the power of her stare alone. She slowly, tenderly held out her hand, as if she were on the brink of helping him to his feet. But her fingertips glowed, yellow particles of energy drifting from her hand like fireflies taking to the sky. Harry watched the feat of wandless magic in fascination, delighting in the paradoxical beauty that was now consuming the dark space.
Until the particles eventually landed on him and he felt his body contort. The magic infiltrated his skin, seeping through into his bloodstream. He was practically consumed by the force and his limbs reached out in different directions without his permission, straining painfully against the cuffs. His back spasmed and he gritted his teeth, feeling the magic search through him, touching every atom of his existence. All the while Karstark watched on with passive, morbid curiosity.
When it was over, Harry was relieved to discover that he could still breath, that he still had control over his body after the brief invasion. Lestrange had been clapping throughout the performance, and she appeared keenly distraught at the fact it had come to an end. Voldemort didn't say anything, his attention more focused on Karstark than the battered and bruised form of Harry. He was well aware that he must have been cutting a pitiful sight, but he was too happy that the examination had finished to rightly care.
"There is something tethered to the boy," Karstark commented. She twisted her nose at the sensation. "Something that is not of his own. Something that belongs to you, my Lord."
Voldemort's face fell. "Meaning?"
"It carries the same imprint as your magical signature. It is, to put it simply, your magic. Your…soul. A piece of it is attached to him. We here know of your activities, my Lord. We understand the creation of your horcruxes. I…I would say that you have turned the boy into one such artefact. Perhaps when you killed his parents that fateful night. You transferred a piece of yourself into him."
She stretched out a hand once more and Harry grew nauseous, fearing that she was going to enact a repeat performance. Instead, she lightly dragged a finger across his scar, making it abundantly clear as to where she suspected that piece of Voldemort had infiltrated his opponent. Harry wanted to pull away from her touch, but he was left as frustratingly immobile as he'd been up to that point. Even his pulsating emotions weren't enough to help him break free.
If Karstark was right…if she was correct in her assumptions…then Harry was a horcrux. The key to defeating Voldemort lay within him. A part of him wanted to be more surprised than he was feeling. It should have shocked him to his core. But hadn't Dumbledore spoken in the past about Voldemort leaving an imprint of himself during the attack? Hadn't that accounted for Harry's Parseltongue abilities and the connection he shared to the Dark Lord. He was ashamed more than shocked, since he hadn't figured it out himself.
It wasn't just that. Voldemort now knew that Harry had knowledge of the horcruxes' existence, seeing as Karstark had allowed the word to tumble from her mouth. Would anything change because of that? Would he try to create more of the deadly, cursed items? Harry supposed that it didn't have to have an impact - if Voldemort was going to kill him, then that perceived knowledge would die with him. The Dark Lord didn't have to know that there were others who were hunting them down.
Every cloud has a silver lining, even one as dark as the one hanging over him.
"If you were to kill him as he is, then you would destroy the horcrux as well," Karstark said, turning away from Harry to look at Voldemort. "You can't go through with it without putting yourself at risk, my Lord."
He was slowly processing the new information, staring at Harry in what could only be described as anguish. Was he regretting that night? Was he regretting the deaths of Lily and James Potter? Harry took a small sense of glee at that, as if their tragic fates were still successfully plaguing Voldemort. They'd be proud to know that.
"Are you instructing me to let him live?" Voldemort asked sharply.
The rest of the Death Eaters had smartly grown quiet, picking up on their master's increasing fury. Harry again clung onto the hope that Karstark was inadvertently stalling his death, a twisted guardian angel of sorts.
"Not in the long run," she replied, cutting those dreams down straight away. "I should be able to safely extract the horcrux from him, leaving his body free to be killed. If I rush the process, he'll die. It'll take time for me to consider my approach."
"Just do it now," Bellatrix suggested. "If it means he dies, then we got what we came for!"
Karstark tutted. "And steal the glory from our Lord that'll come with finally killing Harry Potter? I'm sure he'd much rather wait so that he can have that satisfaction."
Voldemort didn't respond immediately, seemingly weighing up both options. "You think…correctly, Karstark."
And, with that, he stormed from the room, as if he could no longer bear to look at Harry. Lestrange, Crouch and Malfoy obediently followed in his wake. It was Karstark who lingered, inspecting Harry one last time from afar. For a second, he thought she was going to say something. Maybe an explanation. Perhaps an apology for what she was going to do. But she left without another word, closing the door. It thrummed with the resetting of the ward, cutting Harry off from the outside world once again.
He was still alive, but his mortality had been fractured more than ever before.