He ached.

For several minutes, that’s all he knew. He ached all over. Then his mind caught up to the fact that he was waking from a deep sleep. He lay still, his body hurting too much to move, even if it would help his mind to awaken faster. Had Dudley beat him up? He couldn’t remember. He licked his lips, but his tongue felt like sandpaper. He was thirsty. Way more thirsty than he usually was when he woke up.

His face was warm. Something tickled his nose, but he was too exhausted to brush it away. He breathed in deeply of grass and dirt and the sweet fragrance of fresh air.

He was outside. Why was he outside?

Voices came from nearby, and muted footsteps approached him.

If he had fallen asleep in the yard again, Uncle Vernon would be livid. He might be locked up without food again, and he was already so hungry…

A hand lightly slapped him on the face, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to startle him. He drew up a heavy arm to shield his head and quickly mumbled, “Sorry, Uncle Vernon. Won’t do it again.”

The hand gently but firmly grasped his arm and moved it from his face. “Wake, Potter. Naptime is over,” a voice called loudly from above him. More footsteps neared, along with laughter.

Harry winced at the loudness of it all. His head was killing him, his throat felt raw for some reason, and even the smell of grass was becoming too strong for his overloaded senses. Still…he’d be in even more trouble if he didn’t obey. He slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of a sunny day. A man in dark robes was kneeling over him. Did Harry know him? Those eyebrows looked familiar…

His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as memories came crashing back over him like a wave. Voldemort. Crabbe. Snape. Crucio. Pain. He instinctively balled his fist in Snape’s robe. He knew he was doing a lousy job of keeping the fear and desperation out of his eyes. At this point, was it even worth it? Only an idiot wouldn’t be scared out of his mind after everything that had gone on.

Fortunately, Snape had more presence of mind than he did, for he disentangled Harry’s hand from his robe before the other Death Eaters were close enough to notice. He gave it a hard, brief squeeze before he let it go, which helped, but not enough to stave off a budding panic attack. Crabbe - Snape - pulled him upright. A scowl was fixed on his face, but with his eyes firmly fixed on Harry’s, he took a slow, barely exaggerated breath. Harry could practically hear the man telling him to breathe, and he tried. Breathe in. Breathe out.

In… Out.

In… Out.

By the time Snape had him on his feet - supporting him almost completely by a firm grasp on one arm - Harry had his breathing mostly under control. He couldn’t do much about his shaking though. He wasn’t sure how much was due to fear and how much was due to nerve damage. Actually, he was pretty sure it was mainly due to nerve damage. Not that fear wasn’t there. He was terrified.

At least he was still in possession of his sanity.

On the other hand, was he hallucinating Voldemort and a dozen Death Eaters standing before him in a flowery meadow, of all places? He looked around as far as he could without moving his sore neck too much. They were in a clearing, framed as far as he could see by trees, but the trees were far enough away that there was no danger of enemies lurking about with an advantage. Flowers of every color were in full bloom, dotted here and there between the wild green grass and other plants of the forest. It smelled of sunshine and flower and fresh earth after a cleansing rain.

It was beautiful.

Maybe he was dreaming? It would be a nice reprieve from his usual nightmares.

“Harry Potter,” hissed Voldemort from his left, way too real to be a dream. Harry swung his head to the side and almost fell over from the sudden movement. He would have if Snape had not adjusted his strong grip. The Dark Lord was standing to one side, his followers forming a half circle facing him. Snape held Harry in the middle, and Harry wondered how the spy had managed to maneuver himself into that job. However he’d done it, Harry was grateful to have him so near.

Voldemort’s eyes shone with barely contained rage as he inched closer, and Harry supposed he was done playing the part of the gracious host. “Now that you belong to me,” the wizard said in a hard tone, “I think it time you learned to show me proper respect.” He waved his hand in a commanding gesture, and Snape’s hands - Crabbe’s hands, technically - dug into Harry’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees and holding him there.

He forced his fear to the back of his mind and focused instead on the urge to laugh at Voldemort’s stupidity. He could barely stand, so it was kind of nice to be made to kneel, regardless of the humiliation he was supposed to feel. It took far less energy.

He thought Voldemort might have seen the mirth in his eyes, for the wizard’s wand and eyes twitched dangerously.

“What has Severus Snape done to gain your loyalty?” he asked instead in a silky voice.

Harry blinked. Another interrogation? Hadn’t they covered this already? He stiffened, bracing himself for another mental attack. Only, Voldemort didn’t appear ready to repeat that tactic just yet.

“I heard the prophecy about my servant,” he said disdainfully, as if such a prophecy were too silly to be considered for anything resembling fact. But Harry knew better. If Voldemort was bringing it up, he was concerned. And if the hint of fear in his eyes was anything to go by, that concern had already begun to morph into worry. “Your precious Dumbledore believes it to be about Severus, that somehow my wayward servant’s loyalty will be key to your victory over me. That is quite the conclusion. I wonder what you think.”

Harry cleared his sore throat when it became apparent that he would be required to say something. “I’m sixteen,” he said hoarsely and cleared his throat again even though it hurt. Oh yeah. He’d screamed his head off before, during the Cruciatus Curses. No wonder his throat felt like it had been turned inside out and burned by hot lava. “You don’t care what I think.”

“Oh, but I do,” Voldemort grinned, and Harry tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Voldemort was a lot like Vernon: apparently all Harry had to do to make him happy for the moment was to remind him that he was stronger, older, or more superior than Harry in some way. Not too long ago, he’d have added Snape to that list, but now- No. He’d save thoughts about his Potions professor for later. Right now, he needed to focus on surviving Voldemort.

“You see, you are the Boy Who Lived.” Voldemort bent down to look him in the face. “The beacon of the Light. The darling of Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s prized trophy. Not to mention…” He grasped Harry’s chin, and Harry flinched from the familiar flare of pain in his already raw scar. “The key to my power.” He frowned in thought. “Logically, that would make you the key to my victory as well. And yet the prophecy claims that of the servant of two masters. And so Severus is to determine the victor?” He gave humorless laugh. “I think not.”

He tossed Harry’s chin to the side and rose to his feet. “Nonetheless, prophecies must not be ignored. If Severus is destined to play such a role, and if it is not to be in my service, then he will simply have to die.”

Harry shivered. Voldemort sounded as though he were discussing the death of a pesky rodent. It must be done, and then he would carry on with his day. Harry wished he knew how Snape was taking this, but the hands on Harry’s shoulders were still. They held him in place with a quiet strength, but they told him nothing of what was going on in the man’s head.

Snape, ever the good spy. He sighed inwardly, wanting to talk to his teacher more than ever. He shifted, making to try to get up, just to feel the hands move. They held him down, preventing him from standing. The hands gave his shoulders a small squeeze, and Harry stilled. That was enough to reassure himself that Snape was there with him. Just one squeeze. That’s all he had needed to feel a little bit more in control of the situation.

He reached into his pocket and was relieved to find his mum’s heart-shaped stone still there. He traced the smooth surface, finding comfort in the thought of his mum having picked it out and held it in her hands. It was as much a gift from his mother as from Snape, and it helped him to find the courage he’d been afraid he’d lost.

He hadn’t been broken yet. He lifted his chin. “I think that you’ll lose,” he answered the wizard’s question, trying to ignore how his hoarse voice ruined the effect he’d gone for. “What I think is that it refers to Professor Snape, and that he’s chosen his side. I think that you’ve already been beaten, you just don’t know it yet.”

“Oh?” asked Voldemort conversationally, though his eyes betrayed his hatred for Harry. “It does not appear that way from my vantage point.” He smirked at Harry’s shaking, tired body, forcibly kneeling before him, and his Death Eaters laughed.

“You look just as much a coward as ever from my vantage point,” Harry shot back. The hands on his shoulders squeezed slightly, probably Snape’s way of saying to tone it down, but Harry was about as good as he ever was at following orders…which wasn’t very good at all. Still, when he found himself looking cross-eyed at Voldemort’s wand pointing between his eyes, he had to concede that incorporating more Slytherin subtleties into his approach might not be the worst idea.

“You know nothing of true strength, boy,” Voldemort hissed. “Power is strength, and I am currently the most powerful wizard on earth. My power will only grow, and your pathetic Order will crumble under the weight of my successes.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry refuted, tossing the idea of subtlety out the window. He could try it out another time. “Love is strength. So is hope and courage. You don’t have any of those, which is why you will fail.”

Voldemort laughed, and his pathetic sycophants followed suit an instant later. “What noble ideas you have. Love never toppled nations, boy. That takes power.” He lowered his wand, dangling it at his side.

Harry begged to differ. There were lots of stories about love starting wars and ending them…but that was a bit more poetic than he was going for. He settled for insisting, “Love, hope, and courage are powerful.”

“And do you believe that your dear professor possesses all three?” Voldemort asked in mock innocence, then smirked in obvious derision, and the Death Eaters laughed again. “I will concede the courage. Even traitorous actions can require courage. Perhaps even the hope. I don’t care,” Voldemort waved off. “But love? Severus never had time for such trivialities as love. It was one of his greatest assets while in my service.”

Harry forced himself to stay still, though he wanted to squirm in discomfort. He wasn’t sure how they’d gotten to talking about Snape and whether he had love in his life, but he kind of wished they hadn’t. He hadn’t given too much thought to it, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss something so personal in front of the man himself.

“He did express desire for one woman, I recall,” Voldemort looked at him as if he held a delightful secret, and Harry decided by the slight tremor in Snape’s hands that there was a story there. “But it was a passing fancy. No, Severus has never known romantic love. Brotherly love, perhaps? No. He turned on his fellows easily enough to discount that.”

Voldemort leaned down and ran a finger down Harry’s cheek, making him shudder. “Did you imagine that he felt love for you? He never had a child of his own, after all. Perhaps his latent paternal instincts have finally kicked in.” For some reason, Voldemort and his Death Eaters found that suggestion highly amusing. Their laughter rang through the clearing for a full minute. And…okay, well, yeah, Snape wasn’t exactly a paternal type of person, so Harry figured he could understand why.

He decided addressing anything about Snape and love was too much like walking through a minefield, so he snapped, “You’ll have to ask him about all that. I’m not the one here with the annoying habit of Legilimizing people for every little piece of information.” He felt a pang of guilt despite himself, for he was in the habit of listening in on them, and was that much better..?

“I believe I shall,” Voldemort answered with a smile and drew something small and silver from his pocket. It took a few seconds for Harry to recognize Snape’s ring. Before he could wonder why the wizard was holding it out as if it were a valuable prize, Voldemort was talking again. “Did you know that every wizard has a specific magical signature? It is subtle, but if one knows what to look for, that knowledge can be quite illuminating. I recognized Severus’s magical signature within his ring immediately.”

He rubbed the ring between his fingers. “I wonder if he would answer your call. Does he care enough to come to you in your hour of need, or will he leave you to suffer your fate?”

Harry didn’t answer. What, was he going to be made to use the ring to call Snape to them? It obviously wouldn’t work, as Snape was standing right behind him. Even if that weren’t the case, it was a stupid plan on Voldemort’s part. Snape would be smarter than to Apparate straight into a trap, at least without backup.

“My eyes have been opened to the possibilities of magic, Harry Potter.” Voldemort knelt before Harry and, smiling his evil smile, looked him in the eyes. “The power you have graced me with has brought the world into new focus. The rules of magic are mine to be molded to my will.”

Harry frowned. His heart thumped at the absolute certainty in Voldemort’s voice. Just how powerful was he now?

“I can see it,” Voldemort continued, his eyes filled with a maniacal gleam. “I can see magic. I can feel it, touch it. It is in the air around us, in every particle of air, every breath we breathe. It surrounds us, and I am one with it as I never have been before. I am magic.”

Harry couldn’t stop his eyes from widening at that claim. Voldemort was insane, he truly was.

Voldemort held out the ring. When Harry hesitated, the wizard grabbed his hand with his cold, long fingers and forced the ring into Harry’s fist. “Severus manipulated the magic within this ring to only respond to you. You are going to activate it. Call him to us. This clearing will allow him access…and only him. Let us see if he is courageous enough to face those he has betrayed.”

Harry shook his head before Voldemort had finished speaking. “He won’t come. You know he won’t. He’s too smart for that.”

“We shall see,” said Voldemort as he stood. “I have known Severus since before you were born, boy. He has an annoying but useful habit of rising to every challenge I place before him.”

He raised his chin in a silent refusal, and Voldemort calmly pointed his wand at him. Harry hesitated. His body couldn’t handle another Cruciatus Curse, he knew it. He was drained, body and soul. He uncurled his fingers and looked down at the ring on his palm. Maybe…maybe it wouldn’t hurt anything to do as Voldemort asked. Snape knew what they were doing, after all. No harm would come from activating the ring.

On the other hand, Harry loathed giving in to Voldemort in any way. Coming to a quick decision, he abruptly drew back his arm and let the ring fly as far into the meadow as he could fling it. He only then remembered that the ring had belonged to Snape’s family and sent up a quick prayer that Snape would forgive him for this later.

Before the ring could disappear into the grass, it stopped in midair and flew back to Voldemort’s waiting hand. The wizard looked at Harry with a look of disgust before tossing the ring in Harry’s direction.

Harry ducked, but it turned out that Crabbe was the intended recipient. Before Harry knew what was happening, Snape had one arm wrenched behind his back and he felt the ring slip onto his finger. He gasped at the sudden movement and the resulting discomfort in his sore shoulder. Snape held him at an awkward angle as Voldemort stood intimidatingly in front of him.

“Use it,” he ordered.

“No.”

Voldemort put his wand to Harry’s head, directly on top of his scar, and pressed it into his flesh. Harry yelped at a stab of white-hot pain and tried to move away but he couldn’t go anywhere at this angle. He fought against Snape’s hold but it was too strong.

“Use it,” repeated Voldemort, and Harry glared up at him. He was so sick of this, sick and tired of being hunted and captured and used as a punching bag and a blood bag and an outlet for evil wizards to work out their anger management issues on. Why was it his fault that Voldemort had gone out in a green haze when Harry had been an infant? It’s not like he’d done anything; he’d still been in nappies, for Merlin’s sake! Why did his whole life - and probably his death - have to revolve around an evil power-hungry wizard who lived to torture him and kill anyone he’d ever cared about? It wasn’t fair! His blood was near boiling from the surge of anger coursing through him.

Voldemort sneered down at him. “Your pathetic attempt at courage will not help you now, Potter,” he mocked and send the slightest charge of magic through his wand right into Harry’s flaming scar. He shuddered and cried out at the wave of burning heat that flowed through his scar and head and down his spine. His body spasmed and he immediately tried to straighten up, to bring it under control.

On instinct, Harry used all of his energy to wrench one hand from Snape’s grasp and grab hold of the end of Voldemort’s wand that was jabbing at him. He couldn’t explain what happened next. One moment he was seizing the wand with nothing but rage on his mind, meeting Voldemort’s surprised but angry eyes, and the next, he was looking down at himself.

The boy’s eyes were rolling back, his body going limp as Crabbe deftly caught him before he could hit the ground. The Death Eater held him against himself, both arms encasing the boy to hold him upright. He looked dutifully to his master for directions.

Voldemort sneered down at the boy and wiped his wand as if erasing the filth of the boy’s touch from its point.

Without warning, he staggered back as if dealt a physical blow, feeling the weight of something increasingly familiar pressing in on his magic. Rage and confusion as one ran through him, and he used them to drown out a familiar tinge of fear. He didn’t understand this strange power that the boy wielded, the effect that only he could have on him time after time, as if a mere child could weaken him, cause him to doubt his abilities-

He teetered, barely stopping himself from falling, and felt another fissure form in his newfound fortress of power. He was reminded of the humiliation the boy had already put him through, and he narrowed his eyes into slits at the unconscious boy at his feet. He needed to do away with him, put him away where he’d never escape, never again make him, Voldemort, feel weak.

He needed to ensure that he never escaped.

Ever.

Because he was beginning to doubt his presupposition that this boy held no power over him, and he loathed having to doubt himself. He was Lord Voldemort, most powerful wizard in the universe, and no child was going to best him with parlor tricks and mind games. No child was going to destroy his chance at power. No child-

Harry took a gasping breath and opened his eyes. He blinked and took a few deep breaths in a row until he registered that he was looking up at Voldemort, not down at himself. He felt claustrophobic all of a sudden, arms holding him tightly against someone’s body, as if in a straitjacket. He began to struggle. He needed to get away, needed to move and to breathe. The arms loosened their hold from his chest but would not let go completely. They grasped his arms on either side, forcing him to stay put. He felt the slow rise and fall of the chest behind him, slow breathing…in…out… Snape. Telling him to breathe. Right. He got the message, taking slow shaky breaths through his aching throat and into his aching chest. He stopped struggling, but that only gave his brain time to dwell on what he’d glimpsed in Voldemort’s mind.

Voldemort feared him. That much he might have guessed after their Legilimency episodes, but it was reassuring to know for sure. Somehow he was able to get to Voldemort, both mentally and physically…and magically? He didn’t know how, but he knew that it was happening. It was enough to bolster his courage, at least for the moment.

He didn’t have long to dwell on it. Voldemort’s wand was on him again. His face was pale, his eyes wide with manic rage. “Use it!” he screamed.

Harry almost refused again, but he found his voice cut off by a nudge of his arm from behind. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Snape was telling him to activate the ring. He drew in a breath, hesitating long enough to concede that if Snape thought he should give in, he should probably get on with it then. He slowly drew his hand in front of his body, his upper arm still held to his side by Snape, and moved his thumb to the ring.

He counted to three with his thumb pressed to the band…and then the most wonderful feeling of warm magic pulsed through him. He basked in it, feeling protected and calmed. He sighed at the safety that enveloped him. The ring hadn’t felt like this before, had it? It had warmed, but now…now, it was like the magic was alive, like it spoke to his body and communed with his soul. He looked up, needing to know if he was the only one to feel the ring’s power…

He gasped. He could see it! Magic. He knew that’s what it was, just as Voldemort had described. It filled the air like an electrical charge. He smelled magic like he smelled sunshine and the rain-soaked earth, saw the sparks of magic rising from the earth, surrounding them, enveloping them in an all-encompassing power ready and waiting to be harnessed to a wizard’s will. Harry reached out, sure that he could make those sparks of magic do whatever he wanted them to do. They gathered, merged around his hand, and he smiled with delight so pure that he nearly forgot his dire circumstances. He looked up, certain that the Death Eaters would be either fearful or fascinated by what he saw, but most of them weren’t looking at him. They didn’t appear particularly impressed with anything, as a matter of fact. They watched their master, waited for something to happen, for the traitor to perhaps Apparate into their midst.

He looked to Voldemort, but the wizard was staring at Harry, his eyes filling with a dawning realization and a blinding, fervent hatred. No - no, he was staring beyond Harry.

He tried to turn, to crane his neck, and that’s when he saw it. Tendrils of warm, golden magic, apparently invisible to all but Voldemort and Harry, flowed outward from the ring, mingled with the air, and converged behind Harry onto the body of Crabbe.

And Harry knew with mounting dread and horror that Severus Snape had been found out.