A/N: The next chapter was written faster than expected. I couldn't resist, it was so much fun to write! You may find this one disturbing.

Please review, I love to hear your opinion of this chapter!

Poor Harry. What can I say? I like jostling him around… ;)

Chapter 11

Harry woke to an itching feeling all over his chest. His skin felt tight and still burned with a ghostly pain. As he sat upright he noticed bandages all over his body from his legs up to his shoulders. Part of his head was swathed as well. Only his hands and feet hadn't been hit by Moore's curse.

Not being able to stand the itching, he scratched his belly.

"Potter!" Harry jumped and turned towards the sound. Snape sat in a chair at his bedside. Snape. At his bedside.

"Stop that," the crooked-nosed man snapped. Harry scowled back. Then he remembered how angry he was with Snape for just taking the winning side and leaving the rest to rot. He braced himself to take a lunge at the man while he still had the higher position, but Snape whirled his wand.

"Don't. Move." Snape stood and shook his other hand from his long sleeves. Harry flinched but Snape only touched the bandages around his head. He then made a circular motion with his wand and Harry felt the bandages come off, layer after layer. The white fabric had an intense red colour. Snape twisted a wrist and the soaked bandages disappeared.

Harry felt at his scalp. The surface was eerily smooth under the wetness of blood. He swallowed hard as he stared down at his now red-tipped fingers.

"The curse to your head is temporal of nature," Snape said in a terse tone, answering his unspoken question. "It will keep bleeding."

Harry met his eyes in horror, then averted them quickly. Snape was not going to get anything out him.

"Since the performer is dead, it may take some time before I find the correct counter." Snape sounded bored and matter-of-fact, like he'd rather be doing anything else than talking to Harry. "Therefore, another blood replenishing potion." Snape dangled the bottle in front of his face. Harry took it, careful not to touch Snape's hand. He kept it towards the light at arms length, studying the deep red colour with a frown.

Then with all his strength he hurled the open bottle towards Snape's head.

Snape was not nearly fast enough and the bottle hit him magnificently in the eye. Snape snarled, staggering backwards. With a loud thud, the bottle struck the ground and rolled away. It was still whole, unfortunately.

"YOU IDIOTIC BOY!" Snape had a hold of his arm and pulled him up to eyelevel painfully. His clothes were drenched in potion. One eye twitched in unsuppressed rage while the other was turning an interesting purplish grey.

He didn't care what Snape would do to him. In fact now that he thought about it, he wanted Snape to punish him: maybe if he hurt him enough Voldemort would kill him as well…

But Snape, staring into his eyes, squeezed hard through the bandages and hissed: "Oh no Potter, when I punish you I assure you the Dark Lord won't care." He gave Harry a sneer that trembled at the edges. Meanwhile he couldn't feel the fingers of his trapped arm anymore.

"You foolish, foolish boy!" Snape went on and he threw Harry from him, against the wall beside the bed. Harry groaned as his sore body slammed against stone and his head snapped back painfully. Snape slunk over, giving Harry a sneer of disgust. "Not only are you careless, you are lethally stupid! And I do mean that quite literal, Potter."

Harry swayed, drained of energy. Disturbingly, he felt wetness sliding over his temples and onto his collarbone. He threatened to fall over but Snape kept him upright with a large hand against his shoulder. He almost regretted spraying the potion over Snape's robes.

Snape raged: "Calling the Dark Lord a half-blood in his presence, in public no less! What precisely where you thinking at the time?"

He kept mum. Snape shook him. "Tell me what happened."

Harry lifted his chin, baring his teeth. "Traitor," he spat.

Snape lifted a brow mockingly. "It is time you knew how the world really works Potter," Snape drawled. "Holy Potter, the Chosen One looking down with his clean nose, condemning the rest of us mere survivors."

"I am a survivor," Harry returned, momentarily forgetting his resolve to stay silent.

"No," Snape said, the word drawn out in emphasis, "You have not survived, you have observed from the sidelines while others did the dirty work. You don't know the meaning of the word, Potter."

Harry scoffed. Whatever, Snape.

"So righteous in your delusions," Snape whispered in a hiss.

"What is going on here?"

Harry and Snape both froze at the sound of the third voice. Harry wondered how he could have missed the dark form standing in the doorway. Then he realised it was because of his slowly darkening vision, which crept along the corners of his sight.

Snape turned towards the Dark Lord, careful to keep his hand on Harry's shoulder. It was now streaked with red trails. The Potion's Master bowed his head. "My Lord."

"Why is he still bleeding?" Voldemort said sharply.

Snape straightened and said: "I apologise my Lord. Potter was being wilful as always. I was convincing him to co-operate."

Voldemort walked over and stopped to study Harry. It made Harry's scar flare up again painfully. The pain increased briefly as Voldemort touched his scalp with one finger. He then rubbed the blood that came off between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes slid from Harry to Snape. "Did you do this, Severus?" he asked in a light tone, but nobody was fooled.

"No my Lord, it is the result of the curse."

The angles of Voldemort's face sharpened. "You disappoint me Severus, chatting away while the boy is bleeding out."

Harry secretly delighted in the speed with which Snape's face paled. "Apologies, my Lord. I was in the process of – "

"He refused to give me the blood replenishing potion," Harry spoke up and both men turned to him.

"You –" Snape began but Voldemort interrupted dangerously: "Very Slytherin Harry, but you are lying." He glanced at Snape's soaked front and drew his own conclusions. "How much time to make another one?"

Meanwhile Harry carefully rested his head against the wall, not wanting to appear weak. He scowled at the ceiling. Apparently he had overestimated Voldemort's willingness to torture his servants, or perhaps Snape specifically.

Snape was saying: "- at Hogwarts, it will take twenty minutes, but it is faster than brewing."

"Go," Voldemort said. Snape backed up, then turned and vanished.

Harry wasn't aware of having closed his eyes. He snapped them open as it dawned on him that he was alone in a room with Voldemort. The Dark Lord was standing close, having taken Snape's place with a hand on his shoulder. Voldemort's eyes were narrowed in concentration as he held his other hand with the palm flat against Harry's left temple. He winced but his scar only gave a small twinge.

Voldemort then uttered a cutting curse. Harry froze, but he felt nothing. Maybe he was too drained to feel anything? After several panic-filled seconds he noticed a slow pulse of warmth where Voldemort's hand was splayed against his head. A minute passed with the both of them standing in this frozen tableaux, Harry in a mixture of consternation and fear. His dizziness gradually faded, his thoughts becoming clearer. Harry blinked: the blackness was gone from his vision.

The pulsing pressure stopped and Voldemort retreated his palm. Harry could see it bleeding from two deep parallel slices. There was something about that, but he was too sluggish to trail the thought any further.

He felt some of his strength returning and pushed from the wall to stand a little straighter. Without warning, Voldemort then slapped his bleeding hand over Harry's forehead.

Harry had to grasp the wall for balance. His breath hitched as power, pure power shot into his brain – or at least that was what it felt like. Slivers of pleasure shuddered through him. The sheer depth of magic made his eyelids flutter and a groan slipped from him as sparks danced over his scar. Voldemort's malevolent magic was like sitting in front of the fire with fingers frozen from a cold day outside: excruciating, but vitalizing.

Yet it was more pleasurable than mere warmth, scourging him as it renewed his magical reserves. It was then that Harry understood the appeal of the Dark Lord. Later he would be horrified. Now though, his weakened body eagerly absorbed the energy.

Voldemort pulled away. His eyes sparkled with satisfaction of some kind. Harry tried to take a controlled breath as he felt himself flush deeply. He avoided Voldemort's eyes and tried to measure the distance between his enemy and the door.

The Dark Lord whispered: "Now that you are feeling all better… Crucio."

The familiar agony ripped through him again. Harry's screams increased in volume as the seconds, or perhaps a small eternity, crawled by. After an indefinite amount of time he was aware of the soft carpet under him and opened his eyes. Voldemort stood over him, hatred sharpening his face. Harry's scar felt as if a flame was being held against it. He clenched his teeth tightly to not make a sound.

"That word," Voldemort said. "If you ever utter it again Potter, inside or outside my presence, I shall torture you for a long time, with a method that still allows you to function, and no one will know of your agony. Is anything about that unclear?"

Harry trembled trying to imagine what Voldemort was saying. "No, sir."

"No, my Lord."

Harry's teeth gritted, now for an entirely different reason. For fuck's sake, he wasn't going to… Then his eyes caught Voldemort stroking his wand in a decidedly menacing way. He willed his jaw to loosen after a beat. "No, my Lord."

Voldemort sneered, unimpressed. "I shall have to think of a suitable punishment for your incessant cheek."

His fear was back, having come out of nowhere to squeeze his chest. Harry noticed his fists were balled and deliberately relaxed his hands. He refused to show his frustration with this man, with this situation.

The muscles in his body protested fiercely as Harry took his feet. Questions danced around in his mind yearning to be answered, but he knew that this wasn't a good time. When will it ever be a good time with this monster? Harry thought dejectedly.

The Dark Lord's face was a frightening sight and so he quickly looked down again. A bit of humility never hurt. Voldemort's wand dug under his chin however, lifting Harry's eyes. He raised an eyebrow and stated: "My house, Potter."

With that Voldemort silently Disapparated. Only after he was gone did Harry realise he had answered the question at the front of his thoughts.

How he wished he was a skilled Occlumens!

Harry shakily lowered himself to the bed. Of course this was Voldemort's house. It made more sense than a Death Eater keeping Nagini. Was it Little Hangleton? For that matter, did Voldemort have several mansions? He found this fitted neatly with his image of the self-important man. If his servants already possessed huge ancient mansions, what was a Dark Lord to do?

He let out a snort at the thought. Then all humorous traces vanished and pain overtook his face again. His thoughts turned, as they so often did these days, to Dumbledore. He and the Headmaster had painstakingly discussed Voldemort's past and motives, but at no point had they spoken of the practical issues that Harry needed to know in order to try and kill the guy: Voldemort's hideouts, his manpower, his army's weaknesses and theirs… But of course, that was Order-level material, not something to bother the Chosen One's delicate ears with…

Harry stared at the blue canopy of his bed, his thoughts in a turmoil. Voldemort had granted him access to his own home. He hadn't seen another soul here in the meantime. No Death Eaters were allowed in, perhaps. But why not dump him in a cell and have done?

If he was certain of anything, it was that Voldemort's behaviour towards him was altogether off. Before Voldemort had punished him he had seemed… Harry frowned as he thought of the word. Considerate. In some twisted fashion. Voldemort had given Harry the energy to keep standing, before torturing him.

Was Voldemort trying to make him feel grateful towards him, for not making his life the living hell that it could be? He could imagine how dispiriting that would be for the public, if the Chosen One were to cower and grovel before him grateful for his mercy. Or was he rubbing it in; that however cruel they made him out to be, Harry's situation proved that his opponents had no ground to stand on? Harry rubbed absently at a dark bloodstain on the grey sheets. However unlikely it seemed – the guy had murdered his parents, not something Harry could ever grow to overlook – this was Voldemort they were dealing with: Master Manipulator extraordinaire.

Harry's frown deepened as he wiped away some stray blood drops near his eyes. But then, should he just put up a fight against everything? That didn't seem like healthy behaviour at the moment. It depended on the situation, he supposed. Meanwhile, he would stay vigilant. He would remember Ginny skidding over the stones in the Great Hall, dead because of this bastard. He would abide his time…

He wasn't aware of having balled his fists again until he heard Snape's voice:

"Still going to fight me, Potter?"

Harry relaxed his pose on the bed, not wanting to show he'd been taken unawares. Snape proceeded to give Harry his second verbal trashing of the day. Now is as good a time to start as any, Harry thought and bowed his head in fake reticence. Snape huffed at that, maybe from Harry's lack of reaction and thrust another bottle of the blood-red potion at him. It was almost as if he dared Harry to repeat his earlier stunt, but Harry drank dutifully. Snape proceeded to wrap his head in fresh white bandage, then left without another word.

888

Only two days passed before Snape was back, with the antidote this time. Finally his bandages could come off, and stay off. His itchiness had increased, so Harry was gratified to give his bloody scalp a vigorous rubbing, all under the dismayed eye of the Potion's Master.

Snape threw Harry a couple of brightly coloured Identificator spells which confirmed that the bleeding had stopped. Harry saw that Snape, just like the Dark Lord, was in no mood to answer questions. He had to try though, since it might well be a while before he saw another soul in this place. Harry used his best boy voice and asked for a Daily Prophet, but no polite enquires got him any response. Snape remained stonily silent, only raising an eyebrow at Harry's obviously fake performance.

Snape turned to leave after telling him in a disgusted tone to take a bath. Harry bit his lip, the now familiar claws of anxiety sinking into his stomach; this continued state of not knowing anything of the outside world, of the plans of the new government, of how his friends were faring. In his desperation Harry felt through the ghostlike connection for Snape's Mark: a reflex he wasn't aware of doing until it was too late. Snape spun with a snarl halfway through his walk towards the door.

"NO Potter." Harry suddenly felt like a giant's hand was squeezing his chest. He couldn't breath. "Your death wish at the hands of the Dark Lord is of no interest to me. Leave me out of it."

Harry was on his knees by now, wheezing to get the air that he could past his windpipes. Snape made a slashing motion and Harry was released, gulping as he gripped his chest. "What… do you… mean?" he wheezed.

"Even you can't be so thick as that," Snape sneered.

Harry braced his lungs for another sentence: "He doesn't- "

But Snape cut him off bitingly: "He will, if he hasn't already." Actually, Harry suspected it since the battle of Hogwarts, but he wasn't going to admit it to Snape. Instead he heard himself laugh hollowly. "What do you care?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I merely can't bear to watch as you endanger others because of your stupidity and incompetence. This is not a game, Potter." The last was said in a furious snarl. Snape then turned abruptly and stalked off.

"Don't you think I know that?" Harry yelled after him but Snape was already out the door, leaving Harry to slam his palm on the floor in frustration.

888

About a week later (he wasn't keeping that close a watch) Harry was eating a healthy breakfast of toasted eggs and pumpkin juice when a dark shape moved into the dining room and his utensils clattered to his plate.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter." It was Takumi Watanabe, Harry realised with some relief. Harry stood and abandoned his plate as the wizard made his way over. Watanabe folded his hands behind him and gave a deep nod, or small bow, which Harry returned.

"I trust you have recovered from recent events?"

Harry felt a tinge of warmth spread over his neck as he considered this graceful man must have seen him vomit all over the ballroom floor, in front of a hundred guests.

"Thank you, sir. Yes I'm fine."

To Harry's utmost relief, his magic had done its oldest trick again: just like that time when Petunia had cut off all his hair, it had grown back overnight despite the injury to his scalp. Better yet, it was now back to its old familiar length, sticking up every which way.

"Mr. Moore was an affront to our manners of conduct," Watanabe remarked. Harry almost asked: You mean your manners of torture? but shut his mouth just in time. He didn't want to get on the wrong foot with this man, especially since he appeared to respect him for some reason. Watanabe's English had a slight foreign accent. He must not originally be from around here, Harry noted.

"Today is the first day of your summer courses, Mr. Potter, which you shall attend as per the Dark Lord's wishes. I am here to escort you." He held out an arm for Harry to take.

"Summer courses?" Harry echoed. "You mean Hogwarts is open for the summer?" He felt something swell in his chest at the thought.

"No, this is only for a select group of students. It will not be held at Hogwarts," Watanabe explained and Harry's heart sank. It sounded like something for Death Eater kids.

"Sir, could you tell me what they're about?"

Watanabe gave a tight smile and held up his arm for the second time. "All will become clear in a moment."

Feeling he had no choice but to obey, and also slightly curious, Harry took his arm. Again he was enclosed in the muscled arms. He distinctly remembered that such contact was not necessary for side-along Apparation. Apparently it was a precaution of his guard, a sensible once seeing as Harry had managed to escape before. It left him jittery and uncomfortable.

Luckily Watanabe quickly led go as they landed and started to walk up the driveway.

"Potter?" Watanabe looked around as Harry had stopped abruptly, staring at the too familiar sight of Malfoy Manor in the distance. He shook himself and took up pace again, catching up to the other man. There was nothing to it. He just had to be careful not to let Mr. Malfoy catch him alone. During the Ball he'd managed to avoid him, but with only a couple of students between them, that might prove tough.

He felt Watanabe's thoughtful eyes on him as they proceeded up the front steps, but ignored him. Inside the manor, Watanabe gave Harry instructions to the great chamber situated at the end of the great hall, reachable by an artfully hidden staircase and a small door. He then left Harry alone to walk up the ground floor hallway to their left.

Harry passed a hand through his hair, feeling naked once more without a wand, before proceeding towards the opposite direction. As he walked along the length of the great hall Harry spared a glance for the Fancy Solar System, as he had come to call it, which shimmered brilliantly in the harsh midmorning light from the tall windows.

He took the stairs and placed an ear to the old wood of the door. He heard a cheerful murmuring of voices, all of them distinct but muffled through the door. He opened it, careful no to make a sound.

Harry snug a peek around the corner. The walls of the great chamber were hung with brightly coloured tapestries of friezes illustrating various adventures of mythical creatures. Combined with the embroidered ceiling the effect was striking.

Harry lowered his gaze to the room's occupants. There they all were, about fifteen of them, talking and laughing like they hadn't a care in the world. Actually that was somewhat true. But Harry didn't have to like it. Composing himself, he pushed away from the wall and walked over, his posture relaxed, his steps firm.

"Hey guys, Potter is here." It was Zacharias Smith, baring his teeth in a feral grin. Everyone turned to regard him. Harry tried to hold his confidence tight to himself as he went to stand just outside the circle of his classmates.

Pansy Parkinson next to him made a show of examining him from head to toe, looking disgusted. Someone boomed a laugh and Harry turned towards the sound. It came from a stocky boy about his own age whom he'd never seen before.

His English had an East-European accent as he said: "Be nice everyone. He's already lost so much." The group tittered. He stared at Harry with a simpering smile, and Harry felt a chill along his spine. Without knowing his name, he had made another enemy already.

He let his eyes unfocus, taking a brief moment to fall into himself. Some of them definitely had the Dark Mark, Harry thought, though he couldn't point them out individually. At least four of them, he estimated from the jumble of different sensations, which included Malfoy.

He looked over at the boy in question. Malfoy stood in sullen silence, looking bored, hands folded over his chest. Harry had expected him to be his usual arrogant self, with his classmates having come to his giant of a house and all.

Zabini slid his gaze from Malfoy next to him to Harry. Then he stepped into the circle and to Harry's surprise, clapped him on the shoulder.

"That's tough man," he murmured. Harry realised he was referring to his situation in general. The silence had returned, all eyes on the both of them. Harry quirked the corner of his mouth like he had seen Snape doing and said just as quietly: "Thanks."

Then a deep voice cut through the silence: "Everyone, take your seats." Before Harry turned around he already knew who it belonged to: Lucius Malfoy.

While suppressing the urge to run for the door, Harry looked to where the elder Malfoy was gesturing. Simple wooden chairs had materialised, taking up about half of the chamber's floor. Their circle broke up as everyone picked a chair.

Malfoy's steel-gray eyes slid over the assembly. "I see many acquaintances of my son's and a few new faces." He tilted his chin. "Welcome all, to my humble abode." Someone chuckled and Malfoy's mouth made an almost-smile. Harry wished he could see what Draco's mood was now, but he was sitting at the front row.

"You have come here at the request of non other than our wonderful Lord himself. He has generously allowed a few promising witches and wizards of sixth and seventh year, as well as some post-graduates, the opportunity to study history as it is happening.

Blah blah blah, Harry thought. Malfoy went on with fervour: "Such an exiting time to be young!" He smiled coolly. "You have been chosen to attend this summer school because of your purity of blood, your skills, and your status as members of our prominent families. Therefore you should feel very honoured."

Somewhere next to Harry a hand went up and Malfoy's eyes snapped towards the interruption. "Yes, Ms Calloway?"

"Why is Potter here, sir?"

Malfoy stared at her for a beat, then said almost kindly: "Would you like to criticize our Lord's decisions?"

The hand faltered before descending. Harry heard the click of her throat swallowing in the silence. "No, sir."

Malfoy lifted his eyes, dismissing her. "I will begin this class with a question: what is the use of a Mudblood?"

A beat passed, then several hands were raised. Malfoy pointed and Ernie Macmillan answered: "To serve us." Harry felt a ball of betrayal in his stomach. Ernie, a former member of Dumbledore's Army, was apparently only too eager to choose the winning side. He wondered which of the three requirements Ernie had met.

"In what way?"

"By… by obeying the pure-bloods, carrying out the simple, more demeaning tasks?"

Malfoy gave a nod and said: "That is part of it, yes." He looked around, but all other hands had lowered.

"No one?" Malfoy took up a stroll at the front of the improvised classroom and spoke: "Aside from their natural status as servants to those of purer blood, their second purpose in our society is more essential, at this time. It is this: they are uniquely qualified to facilitate the separation of wizarding and Muggle societies."

Malfoy led that sink in for a moment. "Throughout the past decades Mudbloods have proven vital in this regard, as has been demonstrated in the separation of the Asian wizarding societies of China and Japan. I shall explain."

Malfoy twirled his wand while he walked. His famous cane was absent at the moment. "Most Mudbloods have relations in the Muggle world, while pure-bloods do not. Furthermore they are able to blend in when pure-bloods would not manage this nearly as well – ignoring for the moment the revulsion this would cause the average pure-blood. Mudbloods 'speak the language' of their Muggle and Muggle-born brethren, as it were. As such, they can identify other Mudbloods within the Muggle world and detect disruptive factions."

Malfoy proceeded to outline the recent changes in the affairs of state and the new system of law and legislation. If this were a normal Hogwarts class, and a year earlier, Harry would have been hard pressed to pay attention. As it was he sat riveted in his chair. Finally he would get to know what was going on.

And what was going on was a depressing affair. The ball of heat that hadn't really left Harry's stomach seemed to expand as he listened to the plans of the new regime. Muggle-borns were to have a lower societal status than half-bloods or pure-bloods, as Harry had feared. For example, Muggle-born children weren't automatically allowed to attend Hogwarts. They had to pass several tests, the nature of which Malfoy remained vague about. If they passed them, they were allowed to attend some of the classes depending on their strengths. There were other classes they were never allowed to attend.

As for the adults, those who had shown exemplary behaviour and aptitude in their work would be allowed to continue what they were doing, give or take a few exceptions. Most Muggle-borns who had been covering positions of influence were asked to step down (asked,such nice words Malfoy used). Muggle-borns were prohibited from membership of the Wizengamot and the International Confideration of Wizards, as well as from representing any level of government in any way, be it in politics, Quidditch, or an international duelling competition. Several of these laws had already passed the Wizengamot, which made Harry wonder if there were any resistance left anywhere.

But Malfoy had saved the worst for last: Muggle-borns were forbidden from living alongside Muggles. Though Malfoy didn't go into any detail Harry knew what this meant: families would be torn up and Muggles would be banished, or worse. A new fear erupted in his stomach as he thought of Hermione. She must be alive, he told himself firmly. Otherwise someone would have come to taunt him about it. But, other than that…

Malfoy proceeded to sketch some of Voldemort's views on foreign relations, which would be largely economic of nature. The finer points of foreign politics would be explained in their other class of the summer, he told them. He ended his lecture with a call of names and a list of assigned readings. Most of them were abstracts from newspaper articles. A bundle of articles sparkled into being on each desk. Malfoy gave them the date of the next lesson (in nine days), then dismissed them.

Harry was glad he had taken a seat at the back, closest to the door. As he stood Malfoy's voice rang out:

"Not you, Mr. Potter."

A leaden feeling sunk into Harry's knees as he stood next to his desk. He hadn't thought his overall anxiety could increase any further, but it now did, stretching to previously unimagined heights. Merlin, Harry thought to himself, I can't be as afraid of him as I am of Voldemort, right? He folded his arms over his chest in an unconscious display of nerves. He can't hurt me, not any longer. Voldemort had said so himself: he is not to be touched.

The others shot him smug and interested glances on their way out. The door closed behind the last student and Lucius Malfoy sauntered over, his right hand still twirling his wand. He stopped in front of Harry's desk and tilted his head. "Well Mr. Potter, how did you like my class?"

Malfoy's eyes shown with a familiar, predatory gleam. Harry felt his heartbeat clamber up into his throat.

"It was interesting, sir," Harry responded, adrenaline urging his limbs to attack or run.

Malfoy's wand came up to touch his Adam's apple. "Good. Now, I have a task to fulfil." Malfoy gestured with an arm. "If you would follow me?"

Harry knew from experience how Malfoy could word a question politely but hate it when Harry talked back. And so, having no clue what this was about, Harry said nothing as he followed the man towards a writing desk in the corner.

Malfoy's nostrils were slightly dilated as he ordered: "remove your shirt."

"What?" Harry said automatically. The man's brows raised slightly. "Potter…"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to whip you, Potter."

Harry took a step back. "Why?" he croaked out.

"Must I repeat myself?" Malfoy scolded, but his eyes were alive with pleasure. "Our Lord has ordered me to." Harry stared at the wall blankly for a moment. From the corner of his eyes he saw that Malfoy drank up his expression.

Harry started to tremble and furiously tensed his limbs to still them. He was sorely tempted to scourge Malfoy's Mark again, but Snape's words from earlier held him back. He couldn't gamble on it. Besides, it was per Voldemort's orders that Malfoy was doing this.

And suddenly Harry knew what this was about: the 'suitable punishment' that Voldemort would be doling out. It was now a week after that miserable, bloody day.

With hands that had turned sluggish, Harry threw off his light outer cloak. Malfoy tsked and hovered it towards one of the desks. Harry quickly disposed of his shirt, then turned back towards the other wizard.

Malfoy's eyes roamed over his chest. Harry felt himself flush as he wondered what he had often wondered: whether Malfoy's intense treatment of him was a cover for something else...

"Bend over the desk with your hands splayed."

Harry flushed even more, then berated himself. He briskly turned around and braced his hands against the dark polished wood. Malfoy placed himself right behind him. His thoughts congealed into a blubbering mass of fear then, making him forget all about his embarrassment. Flashes of Malfoy's earlier treatments, back when he was first captured, didn't help matters as his legs started to tremble again violently.

"Ssssh," Malfoy was whispering soothingly into his ear, a hand stroking his back. The familiar large black whip materialised on the desk. Malfoy switched his wand to his left hand and took it, tracing it over Harry's flesh.

Oh god, oh god…

The first strike took Harry's breath away in a beat. One of his hands slipped, slick with sweat. He tried to loosen his shoulders, knowing it would lessen the pain, but it was impossible. The wait for the next strike was awful. Then it came, overlapping the first in a diagonal line and Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Malfoy continued, relentless, and soon Harry felt the skin on his back burst, liquid dripping out. He was yelling now, shrieking with every hit, writhing to give the pain a place in his mind, but even while he was doing this, the next strike would tear his will to pieces.

After ten or so strikes Harry started to sob. After fifteen his legs gave out. He fell painfully on his knees, hands coming up to protect the back of his head.

Then, unexpectedly, Malfoy threw the whip to the ground. He was breathing heavily from the exertion. Harry stayed motionless, heaving in silent sobs. He felt Malfoy crouching next to him. His chin was grasped, his head turned towards his tormentor. Malfoy touched Harry's wet cheeks with a smile of satisfaction. Harry's face twisted with fury as he tried to pull away, but Malfoy wouldn't let him, continuing to absorb Harry's agony in a detached manner.

"Lovely," he whispered, then stood. Harry heard him walk around the desk towards the door behind it, heavy boots clacking on the floor. It closed and Harry was alone.

He grasped the desk to pull himself up, but his knees buckled and he lost his balance. As he fell down again his back stretched painfully and he gave a shout of pain, eyes tearing anew.

Stop sobbing like a baby, he scolded himself but it was no use. His back was hurting like hell, as if someone had branded it with hot iron. He fell back against the foot of the desk, the sobs tearing at it as well, worsening the pain.

He looked around at the beautiful tapestries around him, trying to concentrate on the story they were telling. Then he saw Draco standing in the doorway opposite, wide-eyed.

An obliterating, animalistic rage took over Harry's expression and he screamed, incoherent with fury and pain:

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

The door slammed into Draco's face with a bang, powered by wandless, wordless magic. It had suddenly come to whirl around Harry, dense and wild.

Harry tore all his nails over his scalp and screamed once more at the graceful figures on the walls.

Review please!

I would love to have a native beta reader for this story: let me know if you're interested.