And Harry Potter dreamed….

He blinked his eyes drowsily and saw his glasses lying inches from his face. He grunted softly as he placed his hands on the chilly floor and hoisted himself up. He put his glasses on and looked around.

The room was devoid of anything, including doors and windows, none of which he could see. Feeling slightly unsettled, he scooted backwards up against a wall, where he was out of the open. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, shivering in the strangely cold room. A feeling of unease crept over him and his eyes roved around at the walls, watching, waiting. Someone was coming, he could feel it…….

He was lying on the floor, his body wracked with pain as his stomach contracted painfully. The stubby fingernails of the hand dug into the skin of his other arm as he fought the convulsions.

“Hurts, doesn't it, Potter?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

Hurt…..hurts….hurts…..

Strong hands gripped his arms, holding him upright. The world swam around his eyes and he had to fight to keep his eyes open.

“Look Potter, I have a surprise for you,” said the cold voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry raised his head slightly and saw the figures of his aunt, uncle, and cousin across the room.

“The very people that gave you to me. Your last remaining relatives. How does it feel to be betrayed by your own flesh and blood?” Harry didn't bother to reply.

“Perhaps you would like to choose which dies first?” Harry bit back a sharp reply of no and remained silent.

“Very well then. Bring me the youngest one,” said Voldemort. Dudley was dragged forward and Voldemort smiled evilly at him.

“Any last words?” he asked. Dudley quivered in fear and stared at Voldemort. Voldemort stared coldly back.

“Avada Kedavra.” Green light shot from his wand and as it neared Dudley, Harry screamed, “No!”

Harry found himself bolt upright in bed and Snape standing beside him with his wand out. Harry couldn't bear the thought that Snape might have been touching him while he slept. Somehow, just the thought of anyone touching him sent prickles up and down his spine. Snape reached into his pocket with his left hand and pulled out a vial of reddish-brown potion.

“No,” said Harry. “No, no, no, no, no!” His voice grew louder with each repetition of the word.

“Just get the hell away from me! I don't want any of your fucking potions! I don't need your help!”

“Fine,” snarled Snape as he stalked to the door. “Then I won't help you.” He slammed the door behind him as he left.

Good riddance, thought Harry spitefully as he settled into his pillows; welcoming the reprieve from Snape's presence.

Several hours later, he wasn't so confidant about his decision, about not needing the potions. The burning ache had begun again, not only in his legs, but nearly every part of his body. He was starting to find the idea of the potions across the room very seductive.

Damn, he thought. All the potions were across the room, well out of his reach. He knew from his last experience that getting out of bed was not an option. And he had no idea where his wand was, so he couldn't Summon them.

He would just have to suffer, then. There was no way he was going to beg for Snape's help. He would be fine without the potions.

He would, he told himself resolutely. Harry shook slightly and clenched his hands around the blankets.

Once again, he wondered exactly what had happened to make him hurt so much. Just how long had he been captured for?

God, this was maddeningly painful. He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow, trying not to cry out. As he shook in pain, he was finally granted the mercy of unconsciousness. But unconsciousness didn't free him from the torture.

He lay shivering, half-naked on a cold stone floor. He looked feverishly up at the blurry figures in black that surrounded him. He clutched his stomach as the burning inside him persisted.

Eventually, he gave up and half sat up to throw up a strange liquid that burned his insides as it came up. He fell limply to the side as the Death Eaters' laughter mocked his weakness. Harry felt himself being flipped over and a potion was being forced down his throat.

“No, no,” he cried weakly and tried to push the hand away. Both his wrists were caught in a tight grip and pinned down and with another hand; his mouth and nose were covered. He was forced to swallow convulsively, and then he was released.

Harry sat up again and found himself back in bed, but he had not dreamed being force-fed a potion. Snape was standing beside him, looking extremely angry.

“Idiot boy, do you realize how much you have probably compromised your treatment?” Even though the potion had alleviated most of the pain, he wasn't about to let on to Snape.

“I thought I told you I didn't want your help?” growled Harry. “Get out and leave me alone!”

“No,” said Snape calmly.

“I don't want you in here!” said Harry.

“I really don't care what you want, Potter,” snapped Snape. Harry narrowed his eyes, ignoring how it made his head hurt worse.

“I don't want you helping me,” he said angrily.

“You'll get my help whether you want it or not,” sneered Snape. “Now, are you going to take these potions or do I have to make you?” Harry glared fiercely at the man.

“Make me,” he challenged.

“Insolent boy,” muttered Snape as he pulled out his wand. Harry tensed, bracing himself.

“Immobulus.” Instantly, Harry found himself unable to move and forced to lie there helplessly as Snape advanced with several potions.

For an instant, an image of a black-cloaked figure advancing on him, potions in hand wavered across his vision. The image reverted to Snape and Harry shivered in horror. He felt sick and uneasy as the first vial was poured into his mouth.

‘Poison!' his mind shrieked. But Snape wouldn't poison him, would be? Not after he'd rescued him.

Minutes later, Snape had given him all of the potions and released the spell. Harry curled up on his side with his back to Snape. Snape was a vicious bastard; he knew that. But why did the man have to be so horrible?

Harry felt like throwing something at him. He remembered the book at his side, and picking it up, hurled it at Snape.

At nearly the last second before it would hit him, Snape pulled out his wand and stopped the book in midair.

“Do not try that again,” he hissed, flinging the book back down onto Harry's bed. Eyes blazing, Harry shoved the book off his bed and onto the floor.

“You know, Potter, as long as you continue to act like a child, I will continue to treat you like one,” said Snape. Harry glared at him.

“I don't care,” he said. “You're still an insufferable arsehole.”

Snape took a deep breath and turned away. Harry watched angrily as Snape looked through a large box sitting on the table across the room.

Snape came back with a large roll of bandages and a bottle of dark liquid.

“Are you going to cooperate now, Potter?” asked Snape, acting as though the past few minutes had never happened. Harry knew he was going to have to.

“Fine,” he said huffily.

“Give me your arm,” ordered Snape. Harry bit back a reply and held out his right arm.

He watched in fascination as Snape began unrolling the bandages on his arm. As the first parts of his arm were uncovered, Harry felt like he was going to be sick.

Angry red slashes criss-crossed his arm. They stung when exposed to the air, though they were covered with a maroon potion. Or was it blood?

He couldn't tell and closed his eyes as the last of the bandages on his arm were removed. He swallowed tightly against a wave of nausea and tried to focus on breathing slowly and deeply.

“Keep concentrating on that, Potter. I don't need you passing out on me.”

Strange, Snape's words sounded almost comforting. No, he was imagining things.

He hissed in pain as he felt something cold being poured over the cuts. He then felt hands rubbing the potion in even further.

“Stop,” he murmured.

“This has to be done,” said Snape as he finished and started wrapping new bandages around Harry's arm. His left arm was worse looking, with strange green streaks interspersed among the cuts.

“What are the green streaks?” asked Harry.

“Reaction to a potion,” said Snape simply and repeated the process from his right arm on his left. Harry grimaced as Snape moved on to his legs.

“I don't think you need to watch this, Potter,” said Snape.

“Why not?” Harry demanded to know.

“Because I don't think it's a good idea,” said Snape.

Harry shook his head and watched anyways. As Snape unwrapped the bandages, Harry was suddenly enveloped in a vision.

He could smell acrid, burning flesh. He heard the crackling of flames and the cheering of Death Eaters.

He shook his head to clear the vision from it and looked away from Snape. A strange feeling of unease fell over him as he resolutely stared across the room.

“What is wrong with you now, Potter?” asked Snape irritably.

“Nothing, I just--” Harry stopped abruptly, not wanting to tell Snape what he'd heard.

“Just what?” pressed Snape.

“I could hear fire for a second,” admitted Harry.

“Fire,” Snape murmured. His black eyes were suddenly haunted, as though he was remembering something unpleasant.

“Does that mean my memory is coming back?” asked Harry.

“Perhaps,” said Snape and resumed the task of taking care of Harry's wounds.