Pain assaulted his body from all sides. It was unbearable, yet he still lived. Unfortunately! Time was of no consequence here. The rusted shackles restraining him to the damp cold tower walls were unforgiving and the cold which permeated through was chilling. As the shackles tied him to the walls it also restrained him within the constraints of time itself. He was lost in the never-ending flow, not knowing when it was.

Seconds melded into minutes, minutes blurred to hours, days to weeks. For all he knew (and probably likely too) years had passed by without notice, without consideration. Now there was just a relentless monotony, no rising sun or waning moons to give any indications of time, no stars to navigate by. All the beauty of the world was lost to the dank walls of the stone tower where he was chained and without a doubt life moved on outside of these walls whilst here he remained the same. Stuck within the constraints of time.

And he just lay there, empty, vacant, waiting for the next session. Almost relishing in the anticipation of pain, which had now become his dose of reality. Something to prove he really was alive and was not suffering the tortures of hell, he had not slipped away quietly in his cell. Though if there was hell on earth, truly this place was the embodiment of it.

For the moment he was a blank slate, no emotions and no memories to feed off, breaking him during his rounds of torture with the death munchers. In the silence and the darkness between his other senses unwittingly became acute with the deprivation of his sight. Hearing, Smell and Touch helped pass the time. A certain creak of rusted iron gates announced those entering and leaving the tower. Certain smells called the times for different meals. The heavy thud of steel rimmed boots and maniacal laughter that followed, like now, indicated a torture session was imminent.

Like now? Now, time for a shot of reality finally! For what seemed like an endless amount of time, they had tried to break him, to get him to spill the secrets he held dear. Break him? They did, though it took an inordinate amount of time. Make him speak? Not a chance. He held his secrets close, so close in actual fact he subconsciously locked them away in his mind. Temporarily forgetting everything. Therefore there was not a chance in Hell. Oh this was the definition of hell, therefore to be apt, not a chance in the Heaven would be more appropriate in this situation. At this stage he didn't believe in heaven, in hope, or in miracles. For if he did, he would of gone insane, if what was left of him now could be called sane. Let's just say it would of manifested at a much quicker rate.

The groan of his cell doors opening alerted him to the two newest death muncher's arrival. He was a tense, yet almost anticipating what was to happen, for he could cope with the physical pain, the hurt and injuries as evidence of reality. All else, the mind could conjure.

The thud of boots stopped short of reaching distance. He could tell from the whiff that exuded from the two of them. Dulled emerald eyes stared sightlessly at his two torturers. In the dark, nothing and everything was possible to discern. Sight was temporarily lost, yet, smell and hearing made up a lot for that. He could almost feel the different gaze of one them staring at him relentlessly, and yet he couldn't feel the same hate that emanated from the others. More like and innate shock and disbelief coloured his aura.

The other didn't let him be distracted for too long and got right to it. A swift kick to the ribs proceeded the nonsensical taunts that flowed across his ears.

To speak. To discern meaning through the use of words. It had lost all meaning for him. For what was to talk about here? Bemoan his misfortune, his terrible lot in life? Scream against the injustice of it all? What was the point? Who would be there to hear him? His torturers? They would take pleasure in such entertainment. No, there was no use for it here. It wouldn't save him from this hell hole. It was a tough world and that was the reality of the situation.

Vaguely he felt himself been dragged to the "torture chamber". He had been here so much he knew each detail and feature intimately and with precision. The rough patchwork stone floors and walls, the bare stone alter situated in the centre of the room, the shackles attached to the floors, ceilings and walls to manipulate the body into unimaginable positions. Then there was the general "tools of the trade" as it were – needles, knives, brands and all manner of painful implements, both muggle and wizard, the filthy hypocrites. Of course, you couldn't forget good ol' magic! The cruciatus curse could give any plain boring knives a run for their money.

Detached he could feel them working on him. Or at least one of them was engaging enthusiastically in the activity. The other only participated disjointedly, and then rather half-heartedly at that. His wished he wasn't so reluctant. He wanted the pain. He awaited it eagerly each day. This was his one release, his control, the only thing he could rely on in his harsh tenure here. He needed the pain, it sustained him and at this stage he only continued on for it. It was a pathetic existence, but nevertheless it was one.

The torture continued, for how long he couldn't tell, but he didn't make a sound. It was ingrained and practised, he didn't twitch, flinch or blink when each instrument was presented. He didn't budge more than necessary as they dragged him back to his cell. He didn't fight as his constraints were harshly shackled to him again. Same routine each time.

Or was it? He pondered aimlessly as he listened to the footsteps fade away. Footsteps? There was only one pair he could discern leaving, fading into the distance. Therefore, the other was still here somewhere. Well this was certainly different. A welcome change to the continuous monotony.

He felt the change in air pressure as the other reached out for him. He didn't move a millimetre as a callused finger tilted his chin up slightly. Suddenly light flooded his eyes. He blinked frantically, unused to any sort of light, letting his eyes adjust. Vacant green eyes met a concerned obsidian gaze. Concerned? Concern didn't seem to be an emotion that fit this man. It was like he was unused to such emotion but couldn't quell it despite his best efforts. He was certainly an enigma. Who would be concerned for him in this place.

Two words echoed about the chamber causing a flare of recognition to flash in the young man's and hope in the older obsidian gaze. There was much unnamed emotion laden in his tone.

"Oh Potter!" he whispered softly. Maybe he was an Angel of Death, he was all dressed in black. The role would certainly fit him. But wait! That voice! Those words, they certainly sounded familiar. Yet the tone and emotion, he had never heard before he knew, though not why. Who was he? Life was slowly creeping back into the emerald orbs for the first time since he had been broken as he pondered this enigma.

"Harry," he whispered again "if any of us knew this was you all these years – if any of us had known - " his voice broke with emotion.

Harry? Ah yes that was his name, wasn't it. He couldn't rightly remember. But some stuff did begin to creep back in on him. This man, he was so frustratingly familiar. Then something else clicked – years – he had been here for years. It amused him slightly how detached he was in this present situation.

"Harry, come on child. Do something. Shout at me, kick scream, punch at the unfairness of it all. Anything!" Harry stared emptily at him and he began to get frantic. "What have they done to you child?"

Something else slotted into Harry's fractured mind and he knew without a doubt a vital piece of information. Voice hoarse from disuse he croaked "That's the first time you have ever called me Harry."

Hope again shone in the man's eyes as he shot back up from the slump he had fell into. "You remember?" At the shake of a head he growled out "Potter!"

Harry let out a gasp. That one word, the tone, the voice, the inflection, the body language, everything, it all fitted perfectly and he remembered. Memories! Memories he had long forgotten, flitted back inconsistently. Memories he had locked away to protect in the darkest recesses of his mind came rushing back. He shuddered from the emotional backlash. He kept muttering "I didn't tell, not a word, I didn't tell -"

The man shushed him gently, "We know Harry, you've been so strong, we know." Then he just stared transfixed as Harry's eyes glazed over, in fear and hope and finally he slumped and opened a watery eye in disbelief.

"Pro-prof-professor? Professor Snape? Have I died?" Harry asked in a small voice. "Have I gone to hell?"

Professor Snape did something no-one, no staff, no student, no-one had ever seen him do and nearly sent Harry straight back into unresponsive mode. He laughed. A deep, full-bellied, rich laugh.

"No Harry. But let's get you out of here. The mere fact that you survived "The Tower" for two years, Voldemort's main torture facility, is nothing short of amazing. Most last a week, the longest a month," he shook his head disbelievingly.

Harry sighed emotionally, exhausted from the events. It was unnerving to have all his memories rush back, like water from a burst damn. The damn in his mind had burst, the seal had broken. And then to still have the memories of the last two years of the monotony, the pain and uncertainty, it was enough to send him over the edge again. He knew he would need help once he got back. But first he would concentrate on that, getting back. The rest would come as fate had decided. He would enjoy the relief for now, for recovery or insanity lay ahead, but which was destiny's choice.

"Come Harry. Let's get out of this filthy place. I think I can safely say my days as a spy are over. Everyone will; be relieved to see you alive. Let's go home." Snape said, whilst carefully picking up Harry and digging out his emergency portkey.

Harry's eyes slid open half-way, "Home?" he murmured confusedly. Then a weak smile lit his features. "Home!" he murmured once more, safe in the knowledge he was saved.

With a quiet pop, they disappeared from the hell hole he had lived in for the last two years, to the peaceful grounds of Hogwarts, to recovery and insanity, to home.

Miles away Voldemort's screams rang across the countryside at not only the discovery of his missing prisoner, but also a traitor in his midst.

Back home, Harry Potter smiled slightly, muscles sore, unused to such actions and sank into a healing sleep, surrounded by his friends, mentors and saviour, who himself wore a soft smile, to the amazement of all present except Harry. Home! He was finally home!