Struggling to keep his balance on still wobbly legs, Harry blinked and hoped his eyes would adjust quickly.  Fortunately it seemed his captors knew their way by heart, as they never once paused in leading him onwards.  Trying valiantly to keep his feet under him at the same time, Harry discreetly turned his head from side to side trying to gather any minute details that would help him later.  If he was ever to escape this place - no, that was wrong.  When he escaped this place, he would need all the information he could he could find to get out.  It would be to his advantage to figure out the layout of the place while being dragged through it.  His captives would never know he was fighting them to get another look at the walls or floor, one more moment to take in the surroundings; they'd be thinking that he was just being difficult, trying to keep away from his inevitable fate.

Unfortunately, there simply wasn't much to see at this point.  It was so dark that Harry knew it must be magically made so.  He'd spent enough time in a dark cupboard that he knew by this point his eyes should be adjusted.  The darkness never wavered.  He stretched his eyes as wide as they would go, testing to see if he was right.  For a moment he swore he could actually feel the dark touching him, pressing on his eyeballs.  His heart sped up slightly at the thought.

A sharp tug and displeased noise from his left made him blink and stumble over the rug in the middle of the hallway.  Frowning, he concentrated on keeping his feet moving, pushing his consternation over the loss of sight away for the time being.  There wasn't anything he could do about that right now.  He was better off focusing his energy on those things he could sense.

Keeping one part of his mind on keeping upright and moving at the same pace as the men towing him along, Harry devoted the rest of his attention to the section of building he was traveling through right now.  He got the distinct impression that this was a house, and a very large one at that.  Perhaps a manor?  That would fit Voldemort's penchant for the grandiose and excessive.  Who needed this much space, anyway?  It seemed like they had been traveling an awfully long way already, and the men showed no sign of slowing down.  Underneath his feet, a thick rug running the length of the corridor muffled their footsteps and threatened to tangle feet if one wasn't able-footed.  Low creaks every now and then underneath their feet alerted him to the wooden floor before the rug swallowed the sound.  An old house, maybe?  The idea of a manor house as his location was looking more and more appealing.

The sound of the men breathing and his own labored gasps sounded loudly in the otherwise quiet space.  The corridor must be narrow then, Harry thought.  And made of something other than rock, since it was not echoing very much.  Or at least have something on it to gather the sound.  Portraits, perhaps?  He hoped that he'd be taken back along this way some time in the light so he could see for himself.

The hands on his arm pulled and he allowed himself to be steered around yet another corner and to the right.  His head swung to the right as a gasp sounded close by.  It came from none of them.  He felt both the men tense, and the one on his left jerked as if making a silent signal, before there came the sound of scurried footsteps and a door snapped shut.  It sounded heavy, and wooden.  Well, if that didn't confirm the magical darkness theory, he didn't know what else would.  He knew someone had just caught them in the hallway, obviously displeasing Snape and Malfoy, and they had disappeared into a door right there beside him.  Yet he saw none of it.  He scowled.  Another one of Voldemort's tricks, no doubt.

The men leading him along slowed and stopped, and the scowl vanished from Harry's face to make way for a tense and worried frown.  Stopping could only mean one thing.

His body tensed, and he shuffled his feet farther apart, readying himself as Snape and Malfoy moved in front of him, blocking him from whatever lay ahead.  He leaned forward slightly onto the balls of his feet and let his arms hang loosely where they were pulled in front of him. One arm behind their backs, Snape and Malfoy kept a firm grip on his own extended arms as they waited.  At an unspoken signal they both raised their free hands and placed them flat in front of them.  Light pulsed out from under their palms, illuminating the dark expanse upon which their hands rested with a soft blue-green glow.   It gleamed around the figures in front of him, illuminating the edges of their profiles.  Short lanky hair to his right and a pointy chin to the left immediately gave away their identities.  Harry leaned up on his toes to peer over their shoulders.  He could finally see that they had stopped at a wall of some sort, upon which his captor's hands were pressed.  A dead end.

 Just as he was wondering if they were ever going to do something, he noticed a movement in the light.  Slow at first, but gathering speed, a spider web of cracks filled with the blue-green light was forming, spreading out from their hands.  The lines raced over the surface of the wall until they reached the edges and pulsed brightly, making him squint.  A great split appeared in the middle of the wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, and growing wider.  The hands on his arms tightened unpleasantly and the two men pushed at the same moment Harry realized that this wasn't a wall at all.  It was a doorway.

Stepping forward as one, Snape and Malfoy opened the doors and flooded Harry with light.  His eyes watered and vision went white with the shock to his system and he blinked wildly to clear them. He was hauled up to stand between the two men and felt the hands release him while he squeezed his eyes shut, hard, once more before opening them to get his first look at his ‘training' grounds.

What he saw made him blink once more.  He stared uncomprehendingly for a moment before deciding that what was in front of him was, in fact, really there.  He threw a questioning glance up to Lucius, who only smirked and tipped his head towards the room in response before pushing him to stumble forwards a step.

Well.  This wasn't what he had been expecting.  He didn't know quite what he had been expecting, but it was something more along the lines of chains, whips, blood and screaming.  Nothing like this.  He didn't even really know what this was.  Before him stretched a great fire-lit room filled with people and - well, he didn't know what else to call them but activities.  The fireplace, which stretched the length of the room long enough to fit at least fifteen Knight Buses bumper-to-bumper, he guessed, was obviously designed to be the main attraction of the room.  It roared higher than him and radiated delightful warmth from the opposing wall, completely incongruous with what Harry would have expected to find Death Eaters lounging in.

For that's what it was, really.  A lounge.  Harry's mouth twisted in contempt.  The weirdest, most horrifying, ancient, perverse, skin-crawling type of lounge he'd ever seen. For while the happily crackling fireplace dominated the lighting and temperature of the room, the activities within cast a gray and twisted pallor over the room, so that Harry could hardly look anywhere but at the fire without feeling like his stomach was trying to twist itself into a ball and escape his body.

In front of the fire a huge feast lay on a great carved wooden table.  It was a magnificent table - or would have been, were Harry not to have noticed the decorative carvings along the legs and edges, that of severed human heads and limbs.  All manner of food lay atop it, with delicate porcelain dishes and shining silver cutlery spaced randomly amongst the food, glinting softly in the firelight. A few people were standing around IT, loading up their plates with food that looked to best the Opening Feast for the Triwizard Tournament.  All around the edges of the table though, and at the far end of the room past it, were various stations that made Harry's eyes bug and the breath leave him like he'd been solidly punched.  His eyes tracked around the room in horrified wonder.

It was like a giant gypsy festival.  There were areas for gaming, others gambling.  Still more had shows of all sorts - stories being told with light and shadow, macabre puppets, or dancing; acrobatics and animal tricks; mystics with crystal balls or Tarot cards. Raucous laughter and jesting music wove around all the players and audience members, clinging to the skin and making the heart beat faster in excitement.  Eyes glittered in anticipation, muscles relaxed, and moods brightened as people moved freely from space to space, friends swaying together in small groups or lone spectators meandering at their own pace through the throng. It seemed no one wanted for anything.  Drinks were passed with abandon, and Harry saw what he thought must be some version of a drinking game at one stall, with men taking turns throwing something into a cup and drinking whatever was in it. Male and female belly dancers, all scantily clad of course, doubled as drink servers and entertainment winding snake-like around the Death Eaters, who couldn't seem to keep their hands off them.  Harry gulped and heat rose in his cheeks as he looked away.  His eyes caught on a hollow light toward the far end, and he hastily focused his attention onto something like a Muggle movie show seemed to be playing, with what he thought was a pensieve memory being activated for a small crowd to see. He shook his head slightly in wonder, eyes continuing to flick around, taking in the whole of the bizarre scene.  Some spaces were divided into their own obvious stalls or booths delineated by low-hung cloths; others rather melded into one another and you couldn't tell where one activity space begun and the other ended.

But then there were the darker stations, interspersed throughout all the lighter-hearted ones.  Leather, wood, metal, and bodily fluids abounded.  Faint moans and screams filtered in underneath the festive music. Fur and sweaty skin shone oddly in the flickering light, and something even darker than sweat shone off of limbs tangling within the confines of pillows and curtains. In others, couples were partially shielded from view, some very much not, enacting scenes of anguish and sexual humiliation. Or ones where someone was giving a hardcore fetish show, either alone or with a partner.  People were trussed up in back-breaking formations of ropes, whipped bloody with spiked chains, poked and prodded by heated or cooled metal, kneeling like dogs in front of masters, wearing humiliating items, being stretched to the point where blood ran freely, or having orifices stuffed with items that made Harry's eyes and mind reel.  And by the looks of it, not all of the participants were willing. Harry finally ripped his eyes away, feeling like they would start bleeding if he looked any longer.  His eyes landed on one of several sets of curtained booths that looked deceivingly simple, people entering or exiting one at a time.  Those coming back out looked extremely satisfied. He watched as the flap of one booth rustled and was pulled back, a man meandering out unhurriedly with a smile cracking to show blacked teeth as he adjusted robes back into a semblance of order about his lower body.  Harry tamped down on his brain and refused to think about what might be going on inside the booths behind him.

And it all centered about a vaulted stage in the center of the stations, past the feast table. Harry couldn't tell if it was a permanent structure set into the middle of the stage above all else in the room, or if it was just tonight's entertainment.  Either way, it was repulsive. And he stared. A black wooden beam thick as a human neck stretched up tall from a cross brace spread flat on the floor.  A small tongue-like seat protruded sharply out to one side, about two feet off the ground, a small brace stabilizing it upon the cross on the floor. Normally he wouldn't think anything of the seat other than that it looked ancient.  That is, if a petrified woman hadn't been strapped to it - by her neck.  Conveniently placed at seated neck height rested a thick metal strap secured with a bolt and long screw.  This in and of itself would have been bad enough, but the screw touted a long handle at its end, and Harry gaped as every so often another Death Eater would ascend the stage, approach the chair, and twist the handle.  Each time the woman gasped and squirmed more as the steel noose tightened on her throat. To make matters worse, a steel pike stuck out from the beam into the small of her back, forcing her into an increasingly more strenuous position, and jarring her every time she tried to straighten to relieve the pressure on her throat.

Sweat shone upon her pale skin, dark patches staining her torn and dirtied party dress.  Limp blond hair was darkened with it, tangling around her face and sticking to her like disgusting wet noodles, making her dirt-streaked pretty face more prominent.  Harry stood transfixed in astonished horror, as her wild, bloodshot eyes rolled around the room, seeking anything to settle on and block out this slow death she didn't deserve.  They landed on his own and he shuddered at the depths of the helpless pain and terror radiating at him, pleading him to do something, anything, to get her out of this misery.  Her mouth opened in a soundless plea and his heart jumped while his gut twisted, feet remaining rooted to the spot while his mind screamed at him to do something.

A hand landed on his shoulder, clamping down like a stern brick.  Harry yelped and leaped to the side, trying to brandish an invisible wand and almost trampling a nearby foot in his panic. Whirling to maintain his balance, Harry's heartbeat nearly galloped out of his chest, his breath searing his throat as he stumbled to get his bearings.

"Stop." The cool command broke into his shaky world and he felt a pair of strong hands - like the one that had clasped his shoulder in the first place - grasp him by the upper arms. Trying to slow his racing heart and breath, Harry looked up and almost fell back a step again. Voldemort leaned forward slightly and his lips twitched while he tightened his grip on Harry's arms to prevent him from moving.

 "First lesson, Harry.  Although I hate violence amongst my Death Eaters, in particular in this room, I would suggest watching your step a bit more carefully. You are rather low on the totem pole, as it were.  Your name will not be enough to save you should you falter more than a simple misplaced foot. You understand?"

He looked straight at Harry, who remained wide-eyed and silent. Voldemort lips tightened and he gave a small, disappointed sigh.

"First rule.  All questions demand an answer." The hands slowly began to tighten at Harry's silence as Voldemort continued, "A verbal answer, boy." Suddenly, his hands clenched to deep bruising point and Harry let out an involuntary gasp. Voldemort only continued to look steadily at him.

Against the lancing gaze of those red eyes so close and the heady pain in his arms, Harry burst out a strangled, "Yes!" Inwardly he winced at the breathy quality to it.

"Second rule, although I am disappointed that this was not impressed upon you earlier. I was under the impression that you were informed of this already."  He shot a glare over at the two men still standing to the sides, and they bristled at the implied failure, but bowed their heads obediently.  "You are to address me only by the terms Lord, Master, or He-Whom-Shall-Not-Be-Named.  None of this ‘You-Know-Who' nonsense," he added almost as a disgusted afterthought.  Harry snarled with disgust at the thought of granting the man an honorific, and remained silent.

A raised eyebrow was all he got in return and the pain in his arms increased.  They felt like they were being branded with fire, and if he went much further his gut told him a bone or two had to break under the strain.  Harry nearly groaned in agony and supreme frustration. Feeling betrayed by his weak body, fire coiling and burning deep in his stomach, Harry gritted out, "Yes...Sir."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed and a frown flitted across his lips before vanishing, and finally his gaze relaxed.  "That will do, for now."  Watching Harry closely, he released his grip on Harry's arms but kept one hand on him, turning to open up and sweep his hand out toward the room beyond their little troupe.  Now he smiled in full force, teeth and all.  Harry shrank back as much as he could while still being held.

"Welcome to the Redrum Room, Harry."

Harry blinked. Silence hung between them, heavy with expectation.

"What, am I supposed to be impressed by the name?" Harry asked, honestly confused. The hand on his arm tightened warningly again, and Harry tensed, feeling the already bruised skin shriek in protest. Then it abruptly relaxed again and Harry looked over to Voldemort warily.  He was chuckling, amused, to himself.  Harry didn't like it.

"Ah, such fire. I shall enjoy curbing it immensely, I think. Much like taming a wild colt." He turned the smile on Harry, almost fondly. "You will learn to curb your tongue in time, my boy.  But I hope it will a long, lovely time. We will have so much fun." He reached a hand out and tenderly brushed his fingertips down Harry's cheek.  Harry jerked back and stared at him. Voldemort chuckled again.

"Come; let us refresh ourselves with food and drink." He dropped his hand from Harry's arm and turned toward the feast table. Turning his head to the side, he spoke over his shoulder.  "Release him, Severus, Lucius.  I can deal with him now.  He is no threat to me here."

Glowering at being spoken about like a child, Harry shook his arms as soon as they were released.  Pushing aside the urge to rub the bruises, he crossed his arms, planted his feet, and refused to move.  Voldemort strode slowly toward the feast table, his two minions following at a respectable distance.  Without turning around or breaking stride, Voldemort called back to Harry.

"I wouldn't stand there for too long.  You've already attracted attention, and while it is well-known I tolerate no violence between Redrum patrons, I cannot assure that you won't be...coerced into something you'd rather not do.  The lure of having the Boy-Who-Lived at their disposal..." He trailed off.

Harry suddenly became very aware of the looks being thrown his way.  He glanced around and felt a cold sensation wash over him as he noticed several of the Redrum Room's ‘patrons' edging steadily closer to him, not all together pleasant shadows flickering in their eyes.  He shot a look back toward the three men who were now walking the length of the table, surveying the dishes. Abruptly he became aware of how very exposed he was without them shielding him. One more glance back at the leering men - and a few women - who were even closer now, and he quickly skittered toward the lesser of two evils.

God, did I just think that? Harry's stomach lurched uncomfortably but he determined to ignore it, instead concentrating on the wonderful smells that assaulted him now that he was standing close to the table. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.  Come to think of it, when was the last time he had had a proper meal?  Certainly not in the cell, and before that was his Initiation - he quickly skimmed over that thought - and before that he couldn't remember anything.  His stomach gurgled loudly and he leaned in, as if he could fill it just on fumes alone.

"Wise decision, Harry," Voldemort murmured in approval somewhere to his left.  A plate appeared held out in front of him, and Harry accepted it gratefully before he thought about the fact that he had just willingly taken something offered him, by Voldemort.  He wanted to drop the plate like a hot coal.

"Do not."

The voice of Voldemort shocked him out of his thoughts and Harry turned to gape at him.

"Did you...?"

Voldemort didn't deign to look at him, reaching out to carefully select a piece of nearly-transparent ham glistening in its own juices. "Eat." Finally settling on one, he delicately picked it up and settled it on his own plate without spilling a drop. "Learn to accept the gifts given to you, when they are given to you, lest they be retracted before you make up your mind."  He turned stern red eyes on Harry.  "This is a gift, and it will not always be given so freely."

Harry snapped his mouth shut, not knowing how to respond to that, and turned back to the table laden with food.  His hand clenched on the plate in his hand as he eyed the dishes spread before him.

"It's probably all poisoned, anyway," he muttered sullenly. A snort sounded from across the table and Harry looked up to see Snape staring at him, black eyes glittering.

"Because we would certainly poison the very same food that we eat, just in the off-chance that an enemy would come to partake of it as well.  How very arrogant of you, Potter. And yet you insist that you are not your father."  He shook his head and returned his attention to the selection of his food.  "Your stupidity never ceases to amaze me."

Harry opened his mouth to respond with a retort, but the Voldemort's words about gifts whispered through his mind and a gust of smell hit him again.  Deciding he could be the bigger man for once, Harry filed away Snape's insults, ignoring them for the moment in favor of eagerly loading up his plate.

He cautiously followed Voldemort as he moved down the table, plate in hand and focus split between the lavish food (he nearly wanted to dive his head in, he was so hungry), keeping an eye on the gag-worthy table décor (no way was he in the mood to touch one of those carved rotting human heads, accidentally or otherwise), and maintaining the dance of distance between his captor and the men still staring at him from afar with a completely different kind of hunger. Finally, Voldemort seemed to have perused his fill and moved away from the table.  Harry trotted to keep up with him, and stiffened as Severus and Lucius joined him in tailing Voldemort.  He was nearly vibrating with anxiety.  This was nuts! Literally between Voldemort, sex-crazed pedophiliac Death Eaters, and twin Devils incarnate, how was he supposed to know where to stand?  Everywhere he turned he was surrounded by predators, and it was obvious he was the woefully inadequately prepared prey.

His mind continued to roil and twist in a whirlwind so much that Harry nearly bumped straight into Voldemort where he had stopped.  Looking at the man, he saw a cruel smile twist itself upon what little features he had, while the man himself gazed up. Harry turned to see what he was looking at - and quickly wished he hadn't.  He took an automatic step back that went unnoticed by Voldemort. Together, they stood within an arm's length of the raised dais with the Muggle woman. This close, Harry could see the drool creeping down her chin, hear the small gasps she struggled to make, and see the faint tremors that racked her body every few seconds. Gulping, he lowered his eyes to the floor of the stage to avoid looking at her face.  His eyes landed on fine spatters of what he realized with a jolt must be her blood, and he flicked his eyes up to find that her hands, bound in her lap, were clenched so hard that her nails dug bloody grooves into her palms.

"Beautiful," breathed a voice full with pleasure, passion, and something darker he couldn't - or wouldn't - name.  Harry whipped his head around and saw Voldemort gazing at the Muggle with a curious mixture of disgust and desire. He stared, his brain still having trouble comprehending this whole scenario.  He shook his head and resolutely looked at the food on his plate.  It didn't look nearly so enticing now.

"You do not think so, Harry?" Those red eyes fell upon Harry, in their depths a burning so dark that Harry flinched.

"No," he murmured in a quietly strangled voice, finding that a lump choked him halfway through the word.  He stared at the red eyes so intently burning into his own. A prickling sensation starting in the back of his mind slowly grew more intense as Harry held his ground.  Before it grew to the unbearable point, a stray thought floated across his mind, of something Dumbledore had once told him about Voldemort being adept at Legilimacy.  Damn it, Harry, he's the bloody best there is!  He cursed himself mentally and quickly averted his eyes.

Voldemort snorted and turned away, bodily dismissing him.  Hackles bristling at his implied weakness, the rational part of Harry tried desperately to calm himself, fervently reminding the foolishly brave part of his mind that this was enemy territory and if he wanted a snowflake's chance in Hell of escaping, he needed to keep cool, lie low, and do as he was told so as not to attract unwanted attention. He struggled for a few seconds, the floor blurring beneath his eyes in his distress, and it was only the movement of shadows around his feet that alerted him to the fact that his captor was leaving him behind.

That's right, Harry, he's your captor. You are the captive. He has all the power at the moment, and you have none.  And you'd best do well to remember that.

Now didn't that sound very Snape-like of him? The man must be rubbing off on him.  Harry shuddered and ripped his mind away from that no-good path of thinking.

Harry focused his attention back on Voldemort, who was now rounding the platform to the far side.  His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of what Voldemort seemed to be heading toward: a giant gilded chair that couldn't be called anything other than a throne.  Harry's lip curled in derision, but he mutely followed in Voldemort's footsteps.

Reaching the throne, Voldemort paused on the five or so steps completely surrounding his seat, and raising it above even the entertainment stage. He reached up almost casually and brushed his hand palm up across the empty air in front of him. Uncertain, Harry thought he saw something flicker around the entire throne area, for the briefest of moments.  Glancing around at the people closest to it, no one else appeared to notice anything, so Harry shook his head and continued forward.  Voldemort had only taken one step up toward his throne, and was standing talking with a dark-skinned boy who had come down the steps to meet him.  He must be one of the entertainers, he was so young. The boy's hand was resting lightly on Voldemort's arm, and shockingly enough, Voldemort himself was allowing it.  Harry could hear a softly accented voice smoothly caressing the air, and even more shockingly, saw the wizard's face soften just the slightest bit into a contented smile.  Harry eyed the pair as he slowly came up to stand just behind and to the right of Voldemort without ascending the steps.

At his arrival, the dark-skinned boy's eyes snapped to Harry and he frowned. His body posture immediately stiffened, and Harry caught the merest tightening of his hand on Voldemort's arm, from the corner of his eye.

"¿Quem é este?"  The demand bit out from the boy to Voldemort.

Harry's looked at the boy in front of him, bewildered.  He had no idea what the boy was saying, but it sure didn't sound friendly.  Harry shifted, and looked the boy up and down, cataloguing every feature about him, this potential foe. Not much taller than himself, this boy had dark, burnished bronze skin and short dark hair that curled against his scalp in a way that almost begged one to card their fingers into it and tug. Muscles subtly showed through the gold cloth that hugged his lithe figure, and Harry thought he might be older than he first appeared upon close inspection. But his profile was beautiful, a young childlike face that looked as if it had been created by a masterpiece painter and brought to life.  Hazel eyes outlined in coal black brought a softly vibrant light to the whole face, and Harry's breath caught in his chest as those eyes touched his own.  His skin crawled and he looked up, starting when he realized the boy opposite him was doing just the same as Harry himself - sizing him up.

Voldemort reached out and trailed a hand down the dark-skinned boy's arm.

"Emilio.  Este Harry Potter." He said in a slightly amused and chiding tone.

"¿E? ¿Quem é para ele você?" His already high tenor voice rose and eyes narrowed to glare at Harry, flicking rapidly back to Voldemort every now and then. Harry noted the boy's breathing was getting steadily harsher and more rapid as well, and his own muscles tightened in response, ready for any sudden movements. He desperately wished he knew what they were saying.

Voldemort laughed and smiled at the unknown boy. "Emilio...Harry Potter não é uma ameaça para você."

Annoyed at being left out, Harry finally spoke up.

"You know, I am right here, and I can tell you're speaking about me, even if you try to hide it in another language."

The dark-skinned boy's gaze rolled onto him and his eyes narrowed, a snarl transforming the angelic features into a disturbing visage.

"Very good, little boy.  How smart of you."  Accent thick upon his tongue in distaste, the words practically dripped with derision.

"'Little boy?' Uh, no offense, kid, but I don't think you're one to talk..." Harry's widened eyes looked the boy up and down again, pointedly. This kid couldn't be more than twelve, thirteen at the very most. Being nearly of age, Harry was just a wee bit 'bigger' than this kid.

With a snarl that almost sounded more kitten-like than anything, the young boy burst forward and Harry jumped back, hand rising defensively into a fist between them. But he didn't have to worry; Voldemort's hand whipped out and dug harshly into the boy's shoulder, stopping the action before it could even properly get started.  The boy gasped and jerked in pain, immediately dropping to a knee and bowing his head. Harry could see the cloth had ripped around Voldemort's fingers, and he internally winced in pained sympathy with the young boy. That would leave bruises, he was sure.

"Emilio." The very air vibrated with Voldemort's displeasure.  The boy under his hand keened and quivered, but held still under its piercing grip.

"Me desculpe, por favor. Não é o meu lugar, me perdoe. Eu pisei fora da linha, meu Senhor.  Me perdoe..."

Harry watched, astounded, as the kneeling boy poured forth whispered platitudes in the direction of Voldemort's knee.  A frowning Voldemort pursed his lips, listening for a moment, then slowly dragged his hand across Emilio's shoulder, up the side of his neck, and stopped to grasp the side of his face. With a bruising grip he pulled the boy's face up to him, his pinkie brushing across the lips and stilling the words pouring forth.

"Enough." Voldemort locked gazes with the child at his feet.  "You will not touch Harry Potter. Ever. Do you understand?" Emilio somehow managed to grit his teeth even under the warning grip of Voldemort. Never one to miss anything, Voldemort's eyes narrowed and his grip tightened. "Do you understand me?" Each word was said slowly, punctuated with a demand for absolute obedience. Emilio trembled.

"Sim," He whispered, eyes and shoulders dropping in submission.  He paused, but a quiver still managed to infiltrate his voice as he realized just how grievous of a mistake he had almost made, defying Voldemort in the man's presence. "I'm sorry."

Waiting a moment to drag out his decision, Voldemort released Emilio's chin and moved his hand into the hair on the top of the head, allowing the boy to bow his entire body. Resting his hand, his fingers played absently with the dark curls while he assessed the boy.  A small sigh escaped him and his fingers stilled.

"You are forgiven." He said this softly, almost regretfully, as if he truly wished there had been no cause for the boy to need forgiveness in the first place.

Emilio slumped almost unnoticeably, gratefulness wholly apparent in his whispered, "Grato."

Voldemort removed his hand and turned around dispassionately.

"Leave."  At this the boy scrambled to his feet, haughtily straightened himself, and Harry studied his hurried yet graceful departure.  But as he turned, the look he was pinned with behind Voldemort's back left no doubt in the Harry's mind that this was left unfinished between them. He shifted uneasily as he watched the foreign boy glide down the steps and disappear like smoke into the shadows between the milling Redrum Room patrons. Mentally he placed a great red warning flag next to this boy, knowing that he needed to keep a sharp eye on this unknown adversary in the future.

"Harry."

Harry's attention was brought back to Voldemort, who was now standing at the top of the platform, by his throne, levitating two plates in front of him. Harry glanced around, shocked, to realize that he was no longer holding his own plate.  How had that happened? He looked back up in time to catch Voldemort's smirk before Harry straightened and lifted his chin in defiance, telling himself it didn't matter.  He would hold his own against this man - no, this creature.  He would not allow himself to be thrown; he would stay strong and never let them see him break.

Now, to just convince everyone else here of that.

Acting as if he hadn't a care in the world, Harry forced himself to calmly ascend the steps after Voldemort, who by now had stepped in front of his seat and was watching Harry closely. Deliberately not looking at his captor, Harry paused to survey the room from this vantage. Here you could clearly see everything and everywhere in the room - first and foremost, the central stage.  Harry felt his heart flip again at the sight of the poor Muggle, but he didn't know what he could do to help her.  He could barely help himself.  The thought burned in his veins and he felt disgusted at the whole situation.

"It's no use riling yourself up, Harry.  You'll never escape if you don't save your energy to do so, now will you?"

Harry whirled around to find Voldemort looking down at their plates, seemingly unconcerned.

"What did you just say?" He asked, eyebrows furrowed and heart racing.  He knew he hadn't said that out loud.  Voldemort glanced up once, and then turned back to setting his plate down carefully on the throne arm.

"I said nothing.  You thought I did?" Voldemort said without concern.  Harry stared at him.

"You did..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"Are you sure? Oh my dear child, perhaps the strain of the day has been getting to you. Sit, sit." He gestured to the floor in front of his chair.

"What?" Harry asked, confused.

"Sit," Voldemort repeated.

"But..." He couldn't mean for him to sit on the floor, did he? How dare-!

"On the floor, yes. At my feet." This time, Voldemort's tone brooked no argument.

"You think I'm going to sit at your feet?" Harry's voice rose, incredulous.  Voldemort frowned.

"I see it time for another lesson already.  So quickly.  I had hoped you'd catch on a bit on your own, and I wouldn't have to spell them all out for you..." He sighed, and shook his wand hand free of his robe, where Harry could easily see it.  "Rule the Third: The Dark Lord always gets his way.

"Now, you do have a choice about it." He gestured his wand toward Harry. "That's the fourth rule.  You can choose to make the journey to my way pleasant for you, or pleasant for me. For while I do so hate having to punish my Death Eaters - and yes, that does include you now, Harry; I have little desire to hurt you unnecessarily - it does tend to scratch that little delightfully sadistic itch inside of me when I have just cause to do so."  He smiled pleasantly at Harry.

"So, which shall it be? Will you sit as I have asked, or will all these fellow compatriots of yours get a nice little secondary show this evening?"

Harry, who had up until this point been blanching at the blatant reminders of his new title, glanced around, suddenly realizing just how many people were watching this interaction.  Part of him wanted to rebel against Voldemort, spit in his face and turn around and march down the stairs to the door.  But some other smaller, and perhaps saner, part of him whispered that that wasn't the smart move.  Self-preservation, this voice whispered.  Play along, remember? Play along until you can gather enough strength to escape.  Idly he wondered if this was his inner Slytherin coming out to help him survive, but he pushed that thought aside as he made his decision quickly.  No time like the present to move forward like the brash Gryffindor he was.  He may make decisions like a Snake, but once made he was determined as a Lion to go ahead.

Meeting Voldemort's eyes for a long moment, Harry squelched the rebellious voice and mustered as much confidence as he could to stride forward toward the red-eyed creature awaiting his response.  Shoulders and head up, he clambered down to the stone floor beside Voldemort's feet and sat, cross-legged, staring blankly ahead without seeing anything.  Behind him, he felt Voldemort move, and heard robes rustling before two feet appeared on either side of him.  He stiffened as he felt the presence legs close to his back.

"Scoot back."  The order made Harry's cheeks burn but he gritted his teeth while did as he was told. Large hands came to rest on his shoulders, guiding him until his back was pressed against the solid upright stone of the throne's foundation. There was now a full leg barely touching him on each side of his body, Voldemort's knees level with his shoulders.  Harry couldn't help but glance at them out of the corner of his eyes, trying to control his rage and fear at his own helplessness. He didn't like close contact on the best of days, even from people he was close to; and today certainly wasn't the best day, nor was this a person he ever wanted to be close to. Fighting down the urge to fling himself away, Harry focused on taking deep calming breaths to take his mind off the sensation of his own skin crawling where it touched Voldemort and calm his racing heartbeat.

"Good boy." The voice from above and behind him sounded pleased.  The hands on his shoulders squeezed once and released him.  Harry sighed and closed his eyes in relief as the boxed-in feeling lessened with their removal. It still wasn't where he wanted it, but as long as He didn't touch him anymore, he should be able to manage it.  A memory flashed in the corner of his mind, a reminder of the one time when he hadn't managed it- No. He would manage it.  Nothing else was acceptable.

A plate - his plate - appeared beside him, a hand holding it out.  Glad for the distraction, and suddenly reminded of just how hungry he was, Harry accepted the plate from Voldemort and dug in.

The food was heavenly, and Harry couldn't help the moan that escaped his lips, even though he tried to suppress it. He could hear the smile of Voldemort behind him although he said nothing, something Harry was grudgingly grateful for.  Nearly half his plate was polished off before Voldemort began to speak again.

"When I was...residing in Albania, I met with a traveling group of Roma." Harry stopped mid-bite and waited, but nothing more seemed forthcoming.  Taking his cue with an irresistible curiosity - curiosity killed the cat, Harry, and you are a lion - Harry carefully placed the forkful of food back on the plate, but didn't turn around.

"What's a Roma?" Harry asked his plate.

"The gypsy peoples of the Continent. Wonderful olde magick users they are, lots of tricks to trade with the passersby. Their caravans bring some of the best entertainment all across the land."  Voldemort paused, and as if remembering, mused aloud, "They may have lived like rodents, but they had a true connection to the land, and to the magick.  What a sight. I never will forget.  And I brought it back with me."

At this Harry straightened and ducked his head over his shoulder to peer up behind him.  He could scarcely think of the feared wizard as enjoying anything as mundane as a gypsy carnival. Voldemort's chin was propped in his hand, elbow resting on the throne's arm. Relaxed, he tilted his head slightly to look down at Harry's awkwardly upturned head.

"This room, you mean?" Harry glanced around its edges.

"Yes." A contented smile spread onto Voldemort's face.  "The Redrum Room emerged from a wonderful mélange of the Roma caravans, the Wizarding Court, and a certain lovely Danish Playroom. Though I do admit the lack of swim-up bar was quite disappointing," he murmured to himself.

"Wizarding Court?" I won't believe he just said anything about a swim-up bar.  That was most definitely in my head. "A What-room?"

"Medieval court, to the Muggles. And a Playroom - a kink and fetish Playroom."

"Oh." Harry frowned, confused at how well-versed Voldemort seemed to be in Muggle history and culture, and then immediately blushed hard when the second part of Voldemort's statement hit home.

"I do try to treat my followers well, Harry.  They are not just minions, or an army.  Each one is an individual, with individual strengths and weaknesses to exploit, that I have the talent of weaving together into force strong enough to change our world.  Very few people have this talent, Harry.  Very few.  But I have it.  It is a skill I have honed since I was very young.  It takes great strength of will, great power, to guide every one as a one. But what happens when suddenly that guide disappears?  The structure cannot support itself, and it collapses.  The sheep scatter without their shepherd, and the wolves come in to devour their lambs.  You yourself have seen this."

Sometime during this explanation, Harry had turned his entire body perpendicular to Voldemort's and was listening, enraptured despite himself.  Voldemort had dropped his arm and was leaning forward close enough to almost whisper in Harry's ear.  Harry frowned in confusion.

"Lucius Malfoy lost an artifact precious to me. He was my lost sheep because I was not there to guide him, and not only was my artifact destroyed beyond all usefulness, innocent people were needlessly hurt in the process.  That book was never meant to enter the walls of Hogwarts. By its return both my progress in that direction was ruined, and we took a step back." Voldemort shook his head in mourning.

"You're not honestly telling me you feel sorry for Ginny and Hermione and all the others? I don't believe you." Harry wavered between anger and skepticism.

"They could have been useful, Harry, useful to me." Voldemort ground out. "Do I feel their pain? No.  Do I feel remorse?" A twisted smile made Harry draw back. "I don't believe I have the capacity within me for that emotion. Do I feel anger at the sheer stupidity my wayward servant extolled? Yes. He should have waited.  He should have known--!" His raised voice suddenly cut off as he noticed Harry gaping at his rare display of discomposure.  Regaining himself, he continued.

"You see, Harry, without my care, my Death Eaters become lax.  They become restless, impulsive, their brain cells wither and dry up - in short, without my hand to guide them, they become...idiotic." Voldemort's wry dissertation paused as he looked out across the masses of Death Eaters in the Redrum Room. "They need a heavy hand, Harry.  A strong hand.  They need to be led.  But they also need a release.  ‘All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy,' after all, yes?  Let them bleed out their anger, stupidity, and frustrations in a place where all their dreams and freedoms are granted, in my safe, controlled place."  He leaned back in his throne and swept a hand out to the room at large.

His next words were heavy, and each one struck Harry like a blow directly to the chest: "This is their sanctuary.  This is their home.  Your sanctuary.  Your home."

Harry inhaled sharply as if they had physically struck him and closed his eyes.  "No."

"But it is, Harry.  Here you belong." A voice just beside his ear made them snap back open and he jerked, but a hand snapped out to his head and held him in place. "You are one of us. You came to us - you came to me. Haven't you always wanted to belong?"

Harry couldn't help but flash back on all the times his world had turned him, both Muggle and Wizarding.

"Yes, you have.  I know it.  The Muggles never understood; they never do.  How can they expect to adequately appreciate an earthly god?  And the Wizards, they never understand Muggleborns to begin with.  And to be thrust into the spotlight like you were, constantly on the defensive to all publications, a mere child hounded by adults to be a savior for an entire world, and the whole of your peers look up to you in awe as an untouchable god of their own? Where is your place on this earth? Where can you just be Harry, and not ‘The Boy-Who-Lived,' not a savior, not a god, but Harry? Where can you be yourself, fully and completely, showing even the darkest parts of your very being, without any fear of judgment or recompense? Where? Where?"

The hand in his hair had now slipped down to his neck, and a second hand had joined it to wrap around the other side of his torso, pulling Harry in close to Voldemort's body in a near embrace.  Each new sentence flung out like a barbed fishhook to land inside Harry's mind and soul, tugging and stinging with more insistence the more that landed.  He desperately tried to pull away from the accusations and their truths.  Voldemort must be lying, he always twisted everything.  Harry repeated this to himself, trying to immerse himself in the belief. Mentally yanking on his body, he despaired to find that his body wouldn't move.  He started to panic, pulling harder.  Pounding had started inside Harry's head, and he distantly heard a clamor of voices as if from a fuzzy memory that wanted viewing.  He felt as if his mind and body were disconnected, for the harder he pulled, the less his body responded, and the louder the memory voices became.  But all he heard was bits of burbled sound.

"Harry.  Where can you go, Harry? Where is Harry?"

"I don't know," Harry whispered to no one in particular. He knew the truth.  No matter where he went, there would be no place truly just for him, just for Harry. "Nowhere."

The voices and pounding faded to nothing.  Harry came back to himself to find a pair of strong arms holding him close to...someone...

"Wrong."  The voice told him who that someone was, and he stiffened in shock, horror, and anger. He automatically braced himself to push away, hoping against hope that he wouldn't end up losing a limb or some nerve endings to a Curio.

"Just Harry belongs here." Harry's muscles spammed and trembled.

"Let me go."

"You belong here."

"Let. Me. Go." Harry's teeth were now clicking against themselves with the force of his restraint.

"Harry. You belong."

"Let me GO!" The high-pitched strangled cry leapt uncontrollably out of Harry's mouth, and he slammed a fist on Voldemort's chest.

Voldemort's arms immediately released Harry, who stumbled back a step, only to snatch Harry's offending arm in midair.  Chest heaving Harry scrambled for his emotions, miserably trying to rein them in, embarrassed beyond measure that he had just cracked, in front of not only Voldemort, but all his Death Eaters.  And on such an old subject too.  He surely had a thicker skin.  He really ought to know better by now than to let Voldemort get under it like that.

"It should go without saying that another lesson is to never strike your Master." Voldemort spoke lightly while holding Harry's arm, but his voice was lined with steel ice.  "But because you did not have it explicitly stated to you, I will let it go this one time. Violence amongst my own disciples is not tolerated, most especially not in the Redrum Room of all places.  This, I have mentioned before.  You are expected to remember that which is taught to you, or accept the consequences.  As such, you will be punished for this transgression."

His eyes fell on the half-eaten plate of food Harry had absent-mindedly pushed to the side off his lap during their talk.  With a casual snap of his free hands' fingers, the plate disappeared.

"I wasn't hungry anymore anyway," Harry managed to keep most of the humiliated quaver out of his voice.

"That may be.  But I happen to know you have not eaten a full meal for nigh on five days now.  And you may very well go several more before your next." Voldemort released his arm and pointed back to the floor at his feet.  "Sit."

"Whatever." Harry muttered and sniffed once before plopping back down at Voldemort's feet, happy to have gotten off lightly.  We glanced around warily at the nearest Death Eaters, stomach dropping at the thought that anyone had seen his little altercation.

Voldemort snorted, having sat back down on his throne and replaced his legs on either side of a seated Harry. "It is warded. They see what I want them to see."  Dispassionately he flicked a small bone from his plate off the edge of platform.  Harry's eyes tracked it, only to see it hit something midair, in line with the edge of the stairs, and disappear.  A few faint sparks dissipated into the air where it had disappeared.  Harry gave a short nod and pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and placing his chin on his knees, dejectedly waiting for whatever was to come next.