He’d lost all concept of time. Between the dark, windowless cell and his bouts of exhausted sleep and unconsciousness, he had no idea how long it had been since his last audience with Voldemort. Had it been days? Hours? All he knew was that it couldn’t have been three days, as he hadn’t been retrieved for whatever full moon ceremony his captors wanted to perform.

He had initially thought to keep track of time by his meals, but food was so scarce that he quickly gave up. He was fed just enough to not starve. He felt weak from hunger, and maybe that was Voldemort’s plan. Weaken him so that he couldn’t put up a fight.

But the vile wizard was mistaken: so long as there was breath in Harry’s body, he would fight.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t had much opportunity since he’d been thrown in here. He kept expecting to be marched back to that room of stone and pain where he’d be cursed and tortured, and maybe Voldemort would get over his momentary fear of Harry’s mind and try to Legilimize him again.

But time passed and it didn’t happen.

When he found himself feeling disappointed by that, he’d called his own sanity into question. Who in their right mind would actually want to be brought before Voldemort?

Well…he did. Sort of. In a weird, twisted way.

As afraid as he was to be at Voldemort’s mercy, this not knowing what was in store for him was nearly as awful. He didn’t know what was awaiting him over the coming days. All he knew was that right now he was cold and afraid, and it was dark, and he couldn’t escape his nightmares. His friends and the Order definitely knew that he was missing by now, no matter the distractions Cursed-Remus had thought up to keep them off the trail. They would be trying to find him, he was certain of that. But without a spy on the inside, Harry didn’t have much hope that they would succeed.

And then there was the worst part about waiting in his cell: the blood collectors. That’s what he’d taken to calling those visitors, and they were the other reason he was growing weaker. Voldemort hadn’t seen fit to put him under any sort of sleeping potion yet, but he was apparently impatient to start collecting on Harry’s blood. Harry had already been cursed to lie still on three separate occasions while Death Eaters had cast a strange-sounding spell to magically take blood from his body. The last time had been less than half an hour ago, and he was still lying motionless on the cold stone floor feeling woozy from blood loss. They’d given him Blood-Replenishing Potion immediately after the first two times they took his blood. But after the third time, one of the Death Eaters had mentioned that it wouldn’t be effective if taken again so soon.

So here he was, flat on his back, cold and clammy, eyes closed, too tired to move, certain he would either faint or vomit if he tried to so much as twitch.

At least he’d had a few opportunities to put Operation Irritating Teenager into action. He’d taken advantage of every opportunity to say Voldemort’s name when the blood collectors had come, and he could tell that the pain had affected each of them. It was even more satisfying now that he could see their faces, as after the pomp and circumstance of presenting Voldemort’s long-awaited captive was over, the Death Eaters had been coming to Harry’s cell without their masks. Ordinarily Harry wouldn’t want to cause anybody pain, but seeing their faces pinch in discomfort was his only solace that he’d found at least one way to fight back.

A sound from the corridor broke into his thoughts, and he tensed. They usually left him alone for longer than this after taking his blood. He shuddered in fear. As much as they hated him, they were careful to heed their master’s instructions to not do anything that might cause lasting damage. If they took more blood from him right now, it would definitely cause lasting damage. As in, a dead Harry Potter. And as much as Harry hated most of Voldemort’s plans, he was pretty partial to the dark wizard’s order to keep him alive and in one piece.

The cell door creaked open and he raised a shaking hand to shield his eyes from the light streaming in from the corridor. He thought about trying to stand. He didn’t want to appear weak. But he knew he’d never manage. He could only muster up the strength to feebly hold up his head and peer past his fingers to the two - no, three - figures outlined in the doorway. As two of them stepped in, their features were lit up by a muttered Lumos. Both men were nondescript, with dark robes, brown hair, and a few extra pounds. But while the first one was clean-shaven, stocky, and had impressively large eyebrows, the second was taller, sporting a beard and a scowl as he lit up the room with his wand.

He didn’t know them. Or…wait. They looked familiar, like he’d seen them before, but he couldn’t place them. But really, what did it matter which Death Eaters were here? It was highly likely these three had been among those who cursed him that first day, who enjoyed seeing him writhe in pain.

He dropped his head and flopped his arm back to the stone floor, watching them warily through heavy-lidded eyes.

The third Death Eater stepped to the doorway and leaned into the door frame. He could make out Lucius Malfoy’s features as the man wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of the room. Well, Harry couldn’t help that, could he? He knew he smelled of sweat and dirt and even blood where they’d spilled some on his clothing. He couldn’t smell like roses if they insisted on denying him a shower. That they gave him one small bucket in the corner for his needs and hadn’t emptied it since yesterday (at least, he thought it was yesterday) wasn’t his fault.

Unibrow Man vanished the contents of the bucket and the room immediately smelled tolerable. Not that Harry couldn’t still use a shower.

“I don’t s’pose a fresh’ning charm is too much t’ ask?” he slurred with as much nonchalance as he could manage. He’d figured out that the blood collectors were easy to rile up with an act of cool unconcern. He’d barely met them, but they were already so predictable. If Beard Guy’s narrowed eyes and clenched jaw were anything to go by, he should be fairly easy to rile up too.

Without warning, a pair of firm hands pulled him upright. It took a great effort to keep his head from lolling back. His eyes met Unibrow’s impassive gaze and he gave the man a weak smirk. “I know th’ name of a good hair tweez’ng spell. Want it?” The man ignored him, making it harder for Harry to learn his weakness. No matter. As soon as he could catch his breath, he’d start saying Voldemort’s name again. It was a small pleasure, but definitely one to look forward to.

He tried to jerk away as Unibrow grasped his chin, but he was too weak to succeed. The Death Eater turned his clammy head to either side, looking him over with something like disgust. “How much did those idiots take?” he clipped angrily. “The Dark Lord won’t get anything out of him in this condition.”

“Does it matter?” Beard Guy sneered as he yanked Harry to his feet. Harry immediately stumbled. The room spun, and he would have toppled over if not for Unibrow catching him under the arms. He was dragged out of the cell before he could protest.

“Of course it matters, Nott,” Malfoy said, walking ahead and leaving the others to the chore of transporting Harry. “Crabbe is right. If you think our lord will be pleased, you are welcome to explain to him why the boy looks like death warmed over.”

Beard Guy - no, Nott - muttered under his breath and reached for one of Harry’s arms when it became apparent that his legs weren’t working properly. Harry kicked out and caught him in the shin, proving that his legs were doing some things properly. He grinned at the man’s yelp. He remembered why the men had looked familiar now. Besides some resemblance to their sons, both wizards had been at the Department of Mysteries with Malfoy a couple months ago. They had been at the fight where he’d lost Sirius.

And then there was the fact that all three Death Eaters had sons Harry’s age. That they could get their jollies out of torturing a classmate of their own children made his disgust and anger burn all the more brightly toward them.

Nott brought back an arm to strike Harry, but Unibrow - Crabbe - shifted his weight to one arm so that he could catch Nott by the wrist.

“Remember our orders!” He hissed. “The Dark Lord needs him alive.”

“Oh, he’ll live, I promise,” Nott said in a dangerously low voice.

Harry considered the benefits of kicking the other two men as well. Crabbe was the only thing holding him upright though. It would probably hurt Harry more to be dropped than it would hurt the man to be kicked. And Malfoy was unfortunately out of reach, having stopped with a bored expression to observe his two squabbling fellows. Instead, Harry found his voice enough to taunt, “So brave, defying Voldemort to hit a defenseless kid.”

Nott and Malfoy both narrowed their eyes at Harry. He couldn’t see Crabbe’s face, but he could feel the faintest shudder from the man at Voldemort’s name.

Good.

“Where’s Voldemort now, huh?” He kept going, wishing his voice weren’t so scratchy. He took a gasping breath. Who knew something as simple as talking could exhaust him so much? “Voldemort too scared to face me in my cell?”

Nott’s eyes were murderous. He stepped closer but Crabbe interfered again. “He’ll get what’s coming to him,” he promised in an icy voice, and Harry tried to suppress a shudder at the dangerous undertones. “The Dark Lord will not be pleased if we take his vengeance for ourselves.”

With an angry huff, Nott turned away, leaving Crabbe to follow and support Harry alone.

Harry got the creeps from being so close to the Death Eater. He desperately wanted to kick him away and insist on walking with his own two feet. Only, he knew that he couldn’t. He was trying to put one foot in front of the other, trying not to lean on the man, but the more he exerted himself the woozier he felt. He was breathing heavily, his heart pounding, and dark spots were beginning to take over his vision. He stumbled again. The floor looked strangely inviting, really. Like he could curl up and take a nap… He reached out a hand to the stone beneath his feet to make that nap a reality…

Before he knew what was happening, Crabbe had lifted him so that he was carrying him with one arm under his knees, the other under his shoulders. Harry bucked, trying to be let go. Now this was just humiliating!

“Do you want to spend your last bit of energy fighting me, or would you rather save your strength for what the Dark Lord has in store for you?” the man asked coolly, and Harry stilled. He had a point. Harry didn’t like it, not one bit - it was downright mortifying - but he let the man carry him. He didn’t have to make it easy on him though. He had at least one way to fight back without depleting his limited energy stores.

“Why don’t you call him Voldemort?” he asked. “I always thought Voldemort was an interesting name, has a…er, a unique ring to it. Voldemort,” he sounded out slowly.

Crabbe’s arms spasmed repeatedly and his eyes tightened from the pain. Harry also saw a tick in his lips, as if the man had been about to smirk, and that worried him into silence. What awful thing was Voldemort about to do that had Crabbe pleased at the thought of delivering the irritating teenager in his arms to the evil wizard’s mercies?

He didn’t have long to find out.

Voldemort was sitting on his…throne, for lack of a better word for the stone seat on the raised platform. Only three Death Eaters besides Malfoy, Crabbe, and Nott were there, and even though they wore no masks, Harry didn’t recognize two of them. The third was Peter Pettigrew. Harry felt what blood he had left rushing to his face at the sight of the man who betrayed his parents and his godfather. Forget about punching Voldemort, at least for now; Harry would settle for one good sock at Pettigrew’s eye.

“Harry,” said Voldemort in a honey-sweet voice. “You look a bit worse for wear.”

The Death Eaters laughed, and Harry spared a thought for how pathetic it was to live life as a brown-noser to an evil, sadistic lunatic. He almost said as much, but he really was tired. Best find out what Voldemort wanted and save his comebacks for when they’d be most needed.

Voldemort motioned for Crabbe to put Harry down. The Death Eater lowered him to sit on the ground when it became clear that Harry’s legs were slightly less stable than Jello, then stepped away to join the others. Determined to not show more weakness than necessary, Harry crossed his legs and rested his chin on one hand as if bored, knowing that it would annoy them. The black dots that spotted his vision from the small effort slowly receded. He only wished his heart would stop pounding at the smallest movement, while he tried not to shiver from fear or cold.

The wizard’s eyes narrowed at him. Yep, Voldemort was annoyed. Good. Harry hid his emotions behind a bored expression.

“I have decided to offer you one more chance,” said Voldemort. “Tell me where to find Severus Snape, and I will ensure that you no longer feel weakness or pain. Refuse, and we shall repeat your welcoming ceremony. My Death Eaters have been practicing,” he said with smile.

Harry tried not to visibly shudder at the thought of his first night there. His muscles still ached from the pain curses, and Voldemort would surely chime in with worse this time if Harry didn’t cooperate. What would happen to his mind after all that? Would it break? Would he be like Neville’s parents?

As horrible as that sounded, it might be inevitable. Harry couldn’t cooperate even if he wanted to. He had no idea where Snape was. Well…almost no idea. He had some guesses. But surely Snape was intelligent enough to not stay at any of those places while Harry was missing and could give him away.

“Cooperate and you’ll kill me instead of torturing me? Um. No thanks,” Harry deadpanned.

“I will not kill you,” Voldemort said as if offering him the world. “I will merely allow you to sleep peacefully for a time, secure in the knowledge that no pain shall touch your mind.”

“So you can do whatever you want with my body? Again, no thanks.”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed. “Crucio!” he yelled so suddenly that Harry didn’t have time to prepare. His insides were torn apart. Pain ran through his veins and bones like fire and he barely registered toppling over and writhing on the ground or the scream that came from his lips.

It stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Harry panted on the ground, his heart beating so hard and so fast that he wondered if it was possible for a heart to burst from such pressure. He heard footsteps and saw Voldemort’s feet stopped before him, but he didn’t look up. One curse and he was spent, unable to lift his head from the ground. How was he going to survive an hour or more of this?

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” he croaked honestly, giving up on bravado. He just wanted to sleep. Not with Voldemort’s sinister potion, but back in his cell. He’d been an idiot to want to leave its relative safety. Maybe if he convinced Voldemort that he didn’t have the information he wanted, he could go back sooner rather than later.

Voldemort crouched next to him. “Dumbledore has hidden him with you for some time now. You have talked. He has instructed you. You have no doubt exchanged secrets. You must have an idea where he is.”

“I don’t,” he gasped. “I’m just a-a kid. He doesn’t…he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me his secrets.”

“You forget, boy,” he hissed. “I have seen inside your mind. I have seen the nature of your interactions, how frequently they’ve occurred, how you’ve grown fond of him.” Voldemort sneered at that, and Harry almost corrected him. Fondness wasn’t quite how he’d characterize it. It was more like they’d mutually managed to move beyond hatred before whatever truce they’d built had been blown to smithereens by his own carelessness. But it seemed a rather insignificant point to squabble over at the moment. He almost did anyway, just to annoy Voldemort, but…it would involve a lot of words, and that would require energy…

“You trust him,” Voldemort continued. “Pathetically so. I trusted him too, you know, and he betrayed me. He will do the same to you when his self-interest is threatened.”

Harry felt like denying it, but he kept his lips shut. Voldemort was only trying to bait him, trying to get him to say something that would give him more clues to Snape’s whereabouts or his state of mind or anything that could aid in finding him. Harry didn’t have to rise to the bait.

“However,” Voldemort said softly, “I am prepared to be wrong on that count. Severus may very well be loyal to you. And if that is so, do you think that he will attempt to rescue you, hmm?”

Harry kept his face as neutral as possible. He believed that Snape would try, but he didn’t know whether he had a chance of success. And he couldn’t think of any good reasons for Voldemort to be contemplating that question.

“Should we bait a trap, perhaps?” Voldemort asked with a gleeful smile, and Harry’s pounding heart dropped - a very strange sensation, he noted through his dread. “No, Severus is too cunning to fall for anything so common,” the wizard continued. “I expect far more from someone crafty enough to fool me.”

Harry shuddered, as much due to the venom in those words as from the leftover pain of the Cruciatus Curse. He knew from the dangerous flashing of Voldemort’s eyes that if Snape were to be captured, his death would not be quick or painless. Voldemort wanted Harry for strategy, but he wanted Snape for revenge. Cruel, sadistic revenge.

Voldemort knelt next to Harry and caressed his cheek with long, bony fingers. Harry flinched but was too exhausted to pull away, even as his scar flared in pain.

“You have gifted me with your blood, Harry,” Voldemort said, his mask of politeness back in place. “Do you know what that means?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he felt a jolt of fear. After the first round of blood collectors had left, his panicked mind had wondered why Voldemort wasn’t waiting for his special ceremony. Was he so impatient to get his hands on more power that he couldn’t wait three measly days?

“It means that I wield more power than you can possibly conceive of possessing,” the dark wizard answered his own question. “It means that when I look into your soul this time, the little tricks of the mind that you’ve been taught will mean nothing. After all, how could the simple mind of a mere boy stand a chance against such power?” he murmured in mock sympathy as he caressed the other cheek.

“I did it before,” Harry whispered. He probably shouldn’t have said that, but in that tense moment, he could only choose between foolish bravado and cowering in fear. And he would turn his own wand on himself before he would cower before this evil, disgusting excuse for a wizard.

Voldemort’s lip curled and he dug his fingers painfully into Harry’s cheek. Yep, definitely shouldn’t have said that. “Sallow!” he barked, and one of the Death Eaters Harry hadn’t recognized shuffled forward with an awkward bow. “Hold him while I look into his mind.” Voldemort let go of Harry’s cheek and rose to his feet.

A pair of fleshy arms pulled him up by his elbow, the angle making him gasp in pain. He acted on instinct, kicking out and smirking when he connected with his second shin of the day.

Sallow cursed and dropped him, which hurt too. Harry glared at the man but flinched as he saw a leg pulled back, ready to serve him a vicious kick to the side.

“Crucio!” At Voldemort’s curse, Sallow dropped and writhed on the ground, involuntarily screaming in pain. “You dare take it upon yourself to decide when our prisoner is to be punished?” Voldemort screeched. “I decide such things.”

“I ap-pologize, m-my l-lord,” stuttered the prone Death Eater. He was still convulsing in pain when Voldemort gestured to the other Death Eaters, and a different pair of arms quickly raised him into a kneeling position, one arm holding Harry’s behind his back, the other holding him firmly in place with an arm around his chest. Harry tried to twist, but the arms tightened, and he couldn’t move his legs from where they were pinned beneath his body.

He tried not to panic as a smiling Voldemort knelt in front of him and he felt his eyes magically forced to stay open.

No. He couldn’t do this again. He furiously tried to wriggle his way out of the Death Eater’s hold, but it was no use. He was in a vice hold. He couldn’t break free. And then…

His mental wall didn’t stand a chance. With one push, Voldemort demolished it, scattering Harry’s thoughts like dust in the wind. The pain in his scar was unreal, and as much as he tried to remain stoic, he couldn’t hold in a loud howl as the pain ripped his mind apart. When the memories came, he had no control over them. Voldemort’s power overcame his weak attempts, swatting him aside like a weak and harmless gnat.

Snape was lowering his fork, a frown on his face as he looked across the kitchen table at Harry…

Snape was darting a glance up as Harry’s cauldron gave an unexpected hiss…

Dumbledore and Snape were staring at him over shards of broken glass on the drawing room floor…

Memory after memory of the past month flowed through Harry’s mind, too fast and too strong for him to control. Voldemort was sifting through them with ease, looking for something of use.

Dumbledore was sitting in the drawing room, speaking to Harry. “The prophecy alludes to a servant of Voldemort…”

The presence in his mind stopped, tensed, and focused in on that memory, sifting through, digging deeper, and Harry was powerless to stop it.

Trelawney’s image was drifting out of the Pensieve. “THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN…HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN BOUND BY TWO MASTERS…”

As Voldemort viewed Trelawney’s second prophecy in its entirety, Harry had the presence of mind to realize that he was crying. It was too much. The physical pain, the helplessness, the guilt…he’d betrayed Dumbledore and Snape. Snape’s prophecy had been told to him in confidence, and now Voldemort knew it. How could he have let this happen? He gave another push against Voldemort’s mind, trying to summon the wind that he had called on before. It wasn’t there. It was walled off somehow, beyond his reach.

And this hurt. It all hurt so much.

In that moment of physical awareness, he tried to break free again, desperate to be let go, but the arms were painfully tight around his chest, the body behind him unyielding.

He convulsed and cried out again, losing track of all physical sensation as Voldemort’s rage coursed through him and the wizard continued his descent into Harry’s weaker mind.

“They will go to Kneader’s Point,” Snape was saying, stubbornly lifting his chin…

“I’m done,” Snape was saying as he left Harry’s room. “Practice Occlumency on your own…”

Snape was handing him a ring, explaining, "this is charmed," and waiting for him to take it…

Voldemort severed the connection so quickly that Harry gasped and would have fallen over if not for the body holding him upright. He blinked, trying to remain alert, but his head was splitting open and he felt awful and…and…

He leaned his head forward and vomited the small amount of food he still had in his stomach. The arms holding him let go with a curse and he fell sideways to the ground.

Well, he thought, if he died, at least he could die happy in the knowledge that he’d thrown up all over a Death Eater. Nott, he realized as he rolled over and squinted up. Even better. The man was disgustedly aiming cleaning charms at his arms and sleeves. Harry managed a shaky grin through his pain.

His arm was grasped painfully, which wiped the smile from his face. A kneeling Voldemort yanked Snape’s ring from his finger and studied it with a frown. “How does it work?” he demanded.

“Dunno,” Harry rasped, then changed his answer to “I’ll t-tell you for a glass of w-water” at Voldemort’s raised wand. To his surprise, Voldemort took his bargain seriously and waved a hand in the air as if to summon a servant - which Harry supposed the Death Eaters were to him. A second later, someone was charming his shirt clean of vomit, pulling him upright, and shoving a conjured glass of water into his shaking hands. It was Malfoy this time, he noted as he gulped greedily from the glass and devolved into a coughing fit when he swallowed too fast. Nott was standing far away from him, shooting disgusted looks his way, while Crabbe stood next to him like a good soldier, seeming indifferent to the goings on. Sallow, Pettigrew and the other Death Eater looked on with rapt attention, though none seemed inclined to come closer. He hoped they remembered what had happened the last time Voldemort had Legilimized Harry. And he wished to Merlin he could figure out how to do it again. It was no use though, not while Voldemort was this strong.

His coughing under control, he took a few more careful sips of water and then set the glass down with unsteady hands. He pulled away from Malfoy, determined to sit up on his own no matter the effort it took to do so. The Death Eater seemed fine with that, rising to stand with Crabbe and Nott. Harry swayed but managed to sit upright. Barely.

Voldemort paid him no mind at first, examining the small silver and green ring. He held it up to the light. “Do you know what this is?” he asked conversationally, as if he hadn’t viciously violated Harry’s mind a minute earlier. Harry wasn’t sure what he wanted him to say. It was kind of obvious what it was - a ring with some sort of spell or charm put on it. But it must have been a rhetorical question, for Voldemort continued without requiring a response. “It is an ancestral ring. Imbued with an ancient magic. Only the most noble pureblood families own such things. I imagine this ring has been in Severus Snape’s family for generations.” He looked at Harry and his lips rose in a vile imitation of a grin. “You are surprised, I see.”

Harry was, but that was hardly Voldemort’s business. “Surprised you noticed anything beyond your own nose, is all,” he shrugged. Unfortunately, the shrug threw him off balance, ruining the effect of his nonchalant act. He caught and braced himself with one arm.

Voldemort curled his lip but continued, “Ancestral magic is strong magic. To bind such a ring to himself would be simple enough for someone of his capabilities. I imagine it is strong enough to reach him across any distance. So tell me. How does it work? Does it allow you to summon him? To communicate with him?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“I can easily see inside your mind for myself,” Voldemort threatened, and Harry shuddered at the thought of him once more sifting through his thoughts, tearing his mind apart, crushing his already throbbing head until he died from the pressure.

“It - it alerts him when I need help,” Harry admitted, figuring Voldemort had already deduced that much and there wasn’t anything more he could tell him anyway. “Beyond that, I don’t know. He didn’t tell me, and I haven’t used it.” It didn’t count when the one time he had, he didn’t stick around long enough to find out if it had worked, right?

Voldemort apparently believed him. He looked entirely too pleased as he pocketed the ring, and Harry shuddered at what he could possibly do with it. Would he use Harry to bait a trap for Snape using the ring? If so, Harry would refuse, of course…but Voldemort was plenty strong enough now to force him without much effort.

“It is a shame you do not know more about a great many things,” Voldemort said calmly. “Neither Severus nor Dumbledore confide in you very much, do they? But then, you are a child. One cannot expect the Order to divulge many useful secrets to a boy not yet old enough to Apparate.” From his patronizing tone, he was trying to get a rise out of Harry, but Harry couldn’t be bothered to be offended at the moment. He was still a kid. He always wanted to know more than he was told, but look at how many times his curiosity, his need to know things, had gotten him into hot water. At this point, he just wanted to go home and be happy that he had people willing to protect him with their secrets. Not that that contentment would last long once he got home…but it was a nice thought.

“They do divulge some secrets, however, do they not? Certain prophecies and whatnot?”

He barely had time to register the question when Voldemort again knelt in front of him and grasped his chin. He registered the look in Voldemort’s eyes and his inability to close his own and terror overtook him. He quickly jerked himself from the wizard’s grasp. He tried to stand, to run, but he was still too weak, and an instant after he fell to the ground, a different pair of Death Eater arms was lifting him, pinning his arms to his side, and forcing him to kneel in front of their master.

He whimpered, and he hated himself for the show of weakness, but he was terrified of Voldemort’s power, terrified of the pain he was about to experience all over again. The arms holding him tightened, bracing him against a stranger’s chest, and he knew it was pointless to try to escape. He tried to prepare himself but…

Pain. His scar erupted in pain, and memories flew through his mind so fast that he couldn’t make sense of them. Voldemort could though. He sifted through them with purpose, with a sense of glee even, looking for something in particular, discarding each memory that did not serve his purpose. The flip book of memories finally stopped and stilled.

Dumbledore was watching him with sad eyes. “I believe the prophecy to be speaking of Severus Snape.”

The memory fast-forwarded, Voldemort’s impatience rushing through Harry like a wave.

The headmaster was saying softly, “…the side which Professor Snape chooses will have the victory.”

“…that he would be the key to unlocking your power to defeat Voldemort…”

“Lies!” he heard outside his mind, and Voldemort’s anger coursed through him.

But wait. How could he feel Voldemort’s emotions? How was that possible? Voldemort was Legilimizing him, not the other way around. There was no potion. He shouldn’t be able to read Voldemort’s emotions or his thoughts…should he? He couldn’t when Snape Legilimized him, not unless he did it with the aid of the potion-

He gave an involuntary scream as Voldemort broke through a barrier deep within his mind, scattered his memories as if specks of sand, reminding him that now probably wasn’t the time to puzzle over the theory behind the mental arts. Not that he could once Voldemort continued sifting through memories.

He was running through the Department of Mysteries, aiming a curse…

Sirius was falling through the Veil as he watched helplessly…

“No!” he screamed but he didn’t manage to break away. Voldemort carried on, digging deeper.

He was in Dumbledore’s office, broken objects scattered around him. Trelawney’s ghost-like form rose from the Pensieve…

A feeling of glee rushed through him, stronger than before, and he knew Voldemort had found what he’d been looking for. He tried desperately to pull up memories, to think of love, to summon a mental whirlwind or tornado or anything that would help him, but it was useless. He was helpless, watching as Voldemort finally was able to hear the prophecy in its entirety.

THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES…

Finally! He had waited for this moment for fifteen long years. The anticipation made his heart race in excitement.

Where had that come from? He hadn’t thought that. Those weren’t his thoughts. Was he performing Legilimency? No. He was being Legilimized. He didn’t understand…

BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM…

Desperate to do something, anything, he reached out, following the tendrils of thoughts that weren’t his, immersing himself in the emotions he didn’t feel, following, following where it led, giving over to it until he could barely tell the difference between his mind and that of his invader.

BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…

He could follow it no more. But the presence surrounded him. He could feel its joy, feel its anticipation, even knew its thought to reward his Death Eaters with a feast tonight. He summoned all the strength he had left and pushed from inside the presence that enveloped him.

The mind that wasn’t his own faltered, and Harry felt a sense of confusion and alarm in the energy around him. It stood in stark contrast to his own excitement. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he’d done something! He tried again, bracing himself and pushing as if his life depended on it…as it very well did.

AND THE DARK LORD WILL-

His brain was on fire. He was screaming. So was he. No…so was the other “he.” The mind that was his own but was someone else’s. They were joined as one, and he couldn’t break away. Neither could he.

Memories that weren’t his own flowed through his mind, too fast to control.

A young boy with dark hair was pointing a wand at a cat. “Avada…”

The same boy, older now, was talking to a snake…a very big snake…telling it to kill…

And so on, and all his broken mind could piece together was that it wasn’t him, that he wouldn’t do those things, that he wouldn’t mindlessly kill, that he’d rather protect-

More screams. Yells. He felt panic, both inside himself and in the air around him.

He didn’t know what was happening, just wanted it to stop-

It stopped.

His head felt light. The invading presence was gone. He slumped back against the Death Eater whose arms still held him upright, unable to care who was supporting him as long as they did so for a little while longer.

He was able to close his eyes, but now that they were closed, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to open them again. At least until he began to register the sounds and sensations around him.

Panic and confusion fueled the air. He could feel it like an electrical charge. Fear was there too, but that was more like an odor. Like a prickling in his nose that he could sense but knew he wouldn’t be able to describe if asked. Sounds grew in intensity, forming a cacophony of disjointed exclamations, muttering, shouts…

He forced his eyes open, needing to know where Voldemort was now that he was coming to his senses.

He hadn’t known what to expect. An angry wizard, angry enough to torture Harry anew? Or perhaps again fearful of Harry’s mind? Even if Harry himself didn’t know what had happened... What he saw was so much more surprising.

Voldemort had crumpled to the ground. He was surrounded by his Death Eaters - all but the one holding Harry, that is, which by process of elimination he figured out was Crabbe - and he wasn’t moving. He was unconscious.

Harry laughed.

Nott didn’t appreciate his humor. He yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. Harry stumbled, still disoriented after the mystery of what had happened. But he remained standing. He didn’t fall. He felt stronger. Why was he stronger? He shouldn’t be.

Like earlier, Crabbe caught him by the arm to steady him, and Harry wondered if the man was one of those fanatic-like followers of Voldemort, following his orders no matter what. Like keeping Harry in one piece even though he was the bane of their existence.

Even though Harry had rendered their master - their insanely powerful master - unconscious.

Well, Harry didn’t need to make his creepy fanaticism easier. Bolstered by his win, he kicked out, catching the man in the shin like he’d wanted to do earlier. Three for three. He grinned as Crabbe yelped and almost lost his grip on Harry’s arm. The man readjusted, positioning him so that the angle wasn’t ideal for shin kicking.

Nott inched forward, but Crabbe waved him away. “He is not worth the trouble. See to the Dark Lord. I’ll bring him to his cell.”

Sallow grabbed at Harry to help, and he kicked out at him too, happy when the man warily shied away. He opened his mouth to taunt them with Voldemort’s name, but he coughed instead. His throat was parched, as if he hadn’t drunk anything for days. Unfortunately, with what had just happened, he doubted anyone was about to offer him more water.

He felt a chill despite himself at the pure hatred in Nott’s eyes. Before Harry could find out what it was like to be murdered by a Death Eater, Crabbe manhandled him toward the doors of the room, Sallow following closely behind - but not too closely. But Harry was feeling angry and defiant, and he was bolstered by the fact that he could walk now, so he didn’t make it easy. He twisted and bumped and stumbled on purpose until the Death Eater gave him a small shake and tightened his hands almost painfully around his arms.

“Careful, Potter,” Crabbe said in a low voice, “You wouldn’t want to harm yourself on the way to the dungeons. Who knows what unusual creatures may lurk there, ready to pick at the bones of particularly bothersome children.”

He heard Sallow laugh appreciatively at the frightening tale, and it took several seconds of struggling for the words to sink in. When they did, he had to force himself to not freeze. He allowed himself to be led through the door and down the steps, struggling halfheartedly while his brain zoomed through the implications of those words.

Unusual creatures.

Crabbe had definitely stressed the words unusual creatures. Those were the words from Dumbledore’s coded Portkey message to Snape earlier that summer. They were the words Snape had used to explain to Harry how to decipher the code. When Harry had wanted to know more codes, Snape had told him to stop bothering him about it. He’d mockingly said that if needed, Harry would be given a code, “no doubt involving numerous nonsensical phrases concerning unusual creatures.”

It was a coded message. It had to be!

Harry had no idea what it meant that Crabbe had said the words, whether he was a spy or whether something else was going on, but he knew one thing. Only Snape would have known that those words would mean something to Harry.

No matter how Crabbe fit into this, that meant one important thing:

Snape knew where he was. And somehow, someway, he was working to get him back.

Harry tried not to show how relieved he felt, how much worry had lifted off his shoulders with that revelation. He fake-stumbled almost obediently back to his cell, hoping the entire way that Crabbe would give him another hint, some way of knowing what was going on, some clue about whether a rescue attempt was imminent.

If only they didn’t have company. Sallow held open the door to the cell and Crabbe helped Harry to sit against the wall. The man lingered a second longer than necessary and Harry sought out his gaze, hoping that he’d give him just one more clue to go on. Anything, anything at all.

He felt a feather-light brush against his mind, there and gone within seconds, before the man stood and turned back toward the door. It clanged shut, leaving Harry alone in the darkness.

It was enough. Harry knew that mind. He smiled.

Crabbe wasn’t Crabbe. He was Snape!