Harry slammed the door to the Defense classroom closed behind him, not caring about the portraits he disturbed or if it pissed Umbridge off. The corridor was dark aside from the flickering torches that cast strange shadows. He glared down at his hand, not needing light to see it with how brightly the skin and the blood glowed red. He clenched it into a fist, not caring about the pain it caused, and hit it against the door at his back in anger and frustration. He pushed away from the wall after a few moments and headed down the corridor. He knew he should go back to Gryffindor Tower, but he could hardly handle being there anymore. Nothing had been the same since Christmas.

He made his way up to the Astronomy Tower’s observation platform and sat heavily at the edge against one of the pillars. He stretched one leg and bent the other, draping his still bleeding hand over his knee, and gazed out onto the dark grounds. As it often did those days, his mind wandered to the Christmas holidays.

He’d had a dream—a vision—of Mr. Weasley being attacked at the Ministry prior to the start of break. Hysterical, he, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had grabbed various members of the DA and flown to London, desperate to save Mr. Weasley. It had, naturally, been a trap, a way for the Death Eaters to try and get their hands on both Harry and the prophecy. They very nearly succeeded, having managed to get him cornered in the Department of Mysteries in the Hall of Prophecies, but then the Order showed up. Spectacular battles erupted throughout the Ministry until the Death Eaters fled, save one, leaving behind innumerable injuries amongst the Order and students.

Mr. Weasley, Charlie, Tonks, Lupin, Hermione, Seamus, Neville, and McGonagall had ended up hospitalized in varying critical conditions. Luckily, no one had died, unless Pettigrew counted as he’d been captured and turned over to the Ministry, exonerating Sirius at last. Additionally, all had healed by mid-January with no severe long-term effects to speak of.

Once the adrenaline had passed, the blame came out. Harry was blamed for those injured, his own near capture, and the near discovery of the prophecy by the Death Eaters. Despite the fact that Ron and Ginny wouldn’t hear a word about getting adult help and Dumbledore refusing to answer their pleas for entry to his office, Harry was the one blamed for being foolish, reckless, and endangering his fellow students.

“You nearly cost us everything we have been working towards,” Dumbledore had said, his blue eyes lacking their usual sparkle as they gazed at him with deep disappointment.

“You’re supposed to know what’s real and what’s a trap! Why couldn’t you have just tried harder at Occlumency?” Ron had shouted, ignoring the fact that he’d known how hard Harry had been trying and spectacularly failing at the magical practice.

“You need to think before you act, Harry. You need to learn the things you do have consequences,” Sirius had said. Harry thought the sentiment pretty rich coming from the man that had failed to think a single thing through Halloween night and had been sent to Azkaban for his lack of thought.

“Maybe you should have just let them take you. You’re the one they want, not us,” Ginny had hissed, a hatred in her eyes he hadn’t ever thought he’d see in the Weasley family and especially not directed at him.

Even now, remembering, Harry winced at their vitriol, their anger, their disappointment. He’d been virtually alone since then. He still had the support of Dean, Luna, and the twins, and even Seamus and Neville despite them ending up in the hospital, but he couldn’t help but miss the others. He felt betrayed that it was so easy for them to blame and hate him for something they’d also been involved in, and had even had a larger leading role in than him. He felt abandoned as Sirius also turned his back, never once mentioning a desire to finally act as Harry’s guardian now he was officially free and able to do so.

Thus, he’d been left on his own to shoulder their blame, the prophecy, and the fate of their world.

And, honestly, he was tired.

“Potter.”

Harry sighed at the voice and let his head fall back against the stone pillar. His eyes closed for a moment before rolling his head to look at the professor. Things had been…better between them, in spite of the horrible Occlumency lessons, which he found funny considering the rest of his relationships seemed to be falling apart. They’d been forced into Occlumency lessons in October and had come to learn a lot about each other, finally allowing their hatred to settle.

Snape knew about his life with the Dursleys, knew about his nightmares and past self-harm. He knew the guilt and shame and anger Harry felt towards everything he’d been pushed into each year. He knew Harry’s darkest secrets, knew him in a way no one else did or ever would.

On the flip side, Harry knew about Snape’s own horrible childhood, the bullying of the Marauders, and his loss of Lily. He knew all that had pushed Snape into joining the Death Eaters and the man’s manipulated actions with the prophecy that would ultimately lead to Snape virtually selling his soul to Voldemort and Dumbledore. He knew the man's feelings of worthlessness and loneliness, feelings that so clearly mirrored his own. He knew what made Snape the way he was and was likely the only person that understood the professor so completely.

Strong respect had been fostered between them and maybe even a semblance of care.

“What has you out after curfew?” Snape asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“Detention,” Harry said simply. “And didn’t want to be around them all.”

Snape nodded, knowing all of what he meant, and dug in a pocket on his robe. He tossed something at Harry who caught it easily, recognizing the jar of paste.

“You are supposed to come to me after detentions with her,” Snape said as Harry unscrewed the jar.

“I knew you’d find me,” Harry said, applying the paste to the carved words, ignoring how it mixed with his blood.

“I have better things to do than chase you around the castle,” Snape griped and Harry grinned at the tone, tossing the jar back to the man who caught it just as easily as he had, only one-handed.

“If that was true, you wouldn’t be here,” Harry said, bending his other leg and wrapping his arms around his knees, gripping his own wrist. His grin widened as Snape rolled his eyes, but didn’t dispute Harry’s comment. “Anything going on I should know about?”

Snape had become his solitary source of information, being the only one willing to actually tell him anything. The professor recognized his central role as well as his maturity, but still managed to treat him his age. It was refreshing. Everyone else either treated him like a child that couldn’t be trusted to know anything or as a full-blown adult and soldier that didn’t need anyone. Snape had somehow found the perfect balance and Harry appreciated him for it.

“No, quiet on all fronts,” Snape said and Harry nodded, looking back out at the grounds. “Back to your tower now. It’s late and cold.”

“Mm, not that bad,” Harry said, but still pushed to his feet and walked past Snape to leave the platform. “Good night, Professor.”

“Good night, Potter, and,” Harry turned around, “ten points from Gryffindor for breaking curfew.”

Harry rolled his eyes. They got along far better, but the man was still a bastard and had a reputation to uphold. “Yes, sir.”

Glad to have one decent thing in his life, regardless of the bastard tendencies or maybe even in spite of them, he returned to Gryffindor Tower.

Harry gazed at the Shrieking Shack, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as he hunched in on himself on the bench to protect himself from the biting wind. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard voices and watched a group of students scurry along the road to pass the Shack as quickly as possible. He quirked a smile of amusement at them and turned back to the broken-down building, his smile fading as he remembered.

He’d found so much that night in third year, only to now have it gone not even two years later. So much family he should have had. Now, he had even less than before.

He sighed again and burrowed his face into his scarf as the wind ripped around him again.

“You could go inside any number of establishments to keep warm.”

Harry grinned into his scarf, moving his head just enough to look up at Snape now standing beside him. The man looked extraordinarily unimpressed.

“So can you, yet here you are,” Harry said, noting how deep into his pockets Snape’s hands were.

“I am required to stop moronic students from freezing to death,” Snape said and Harry chuckled lightly. “Might my advice tempt you to vacate?”

Harry looked at him with a raised eyebrow and smirk. “Cold, Professor?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed and he shifted uncharacteristically as wind picked up again, throwing snow around them.

Harry laughed and stood. “Fine, let’s go.”

He fell into step beside the professor and kept his head bowed, both to protect from the wind and to make it look like he was in trouble in case any Death Eater prodigies were watching. They were quiet as they walked, content in each other’s company, which made it doubly shocking when Snape suddenly threw an arm in front of him and slashed his wand through the air, blocking some kind of curse that would have hit Harry.

Harry’s head flew up and he moved to pull his wand, aware of Snape’s arm still across his chest. He joined Snape in gazing around, looking for their attackers. He was about to turn around to look behind them when he felt something press against his back and he felt himself get pulled away.

Portkey, he thought as his world spun.

He grunted as he hit a wooden floor a few moments later, knocking the wind out of him. He felt Snape appear beside him, but his focus was pulled to the foot that stomped on his wrist. He cried out as he felt something crack and he automatically released his wand, watching through watery eyes as someone snatched it away from him. He heard a hiss next to him and figured something similar had been done to the professor.

He growled and struggled as hands grabbed him, manhandling him to his knees. To keep him still, his hair was yanked painfully and his hands bound behind his back. He looked out the corner of his eye and found Snape being held in the same position next to him.

“Ah, finally.”

Harry looked straight ahead and glowered at Voldemort lounging in an obnoxious throne-like chair on a raised platform. He struggled for a moment only to have his hair pulled roughly, making him hiss with the pain. He glared back at Voldemort.

“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Severus Snape, my not so loyal spy,” Voldemort drawled and Harry felt his stomach drop at Snape’s apparent discovery. “Yes, I know of your true loyalties, Severus. You see, you were seen at the Ministry, arriving and fighting with the Order, with Potter.”

Harry’s eyes closed for a second in dread, knowing exactly the mistakes that had been made. They’d tried to conceal Snape’s identity while he helped Harry in the Hall of Prophecies, using smoke charms and Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder from the twins and exploding shelves of prophecies. They’d even had Snape curse Harry a few times to make it seem he was attacking Harry instead of defending him. Obviously, it still hadn’t been enough and now, Snape would die because of him.

This was his fault.

He opened his eyes and watched as Voldemort got to his feet, drifting towards them with his red eyes flashing. He tracked the madman as he approached, doing his best to ignore the excruciating pain trying to tear his skull apart at Voldemort’s proximity. He couldn’t help his disgust and fury as Voldemort ran a long, skeletal finger down Snape’s cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” Harry spat, reminded of Cedric and the graveyard as the red eyes turned to him. His head was pulled hard again and he gritted his teeth in response, feeling his hair wanting to rip from his scalp.

“Is this concern I hear, for our dear Potions Master?” Voldemort said. “Do you know the things he’s done? The kind of man he is?”

“Actually, I do, and he’s better than every single other bastard in this room,” Harry said. “In spite of everything you’ve done to him.”

“My, my, how…fascinating,” Voldemort hissed, eyes flicking between Harry and Snape. He moved suddenly, gripping Harry’s chin tightly and Harry had to fight not to scream as his skull felt like it was splintering. “This is what you have betrayed me for, Severus? A boy.”

“The same boy that has defied you for fifteen years,” Snape said. “Quite the boy, isn’t he?”

Voldemort growled and released Harry roughly. Harry sagged slightly as the pain diminished just a touch. Voldemort swept back to his chair.

“Take them,” he ordered. “Anticipation will make it all the sweeter for all of us.”

Harry cast the monster a final glare before he was wrestled to his feet and forced to walk. He refused to make it easy for whichever Death Eater had been charged with his transport, though, and fought, pulling at his bonds, digging in his heels, and trying to shoulder-check his holder. The Death Eater was grunting and grumbling with the effort to contain him, making him smirk in satisfaction. The feeling, however, was, unfortunately, quickly erased when he was shoved down a short flight of stone steps. He tumbled down to the landing, groaning as his head smacked a jagged, rocky wall. Dazed, he was grabbed by the throat and his back shoved against the wall, crushing his hands—one already with a broken wrist—between his body and the wall.

Through spotty vision, he glowered at the masked face in front of him.

“Behave yourself, Potter,” the Death Eater said. “Not time for fun just yet.”

The hand at his throat moved to his hair again and he was forced forward, down the steps. It grew darker and colder the further down they went until they were walking through what seemed to be a damp underground cave repurposed into a dungeon, complete with barred cells.

He was pushed towards one, but, instead of being thrown inside, he was first shoved face-first into the wall beside it. Head turned to the left, he saw Snape manhandled in the same way next to him. He winced and clenched his jaw as they were pinned to the wall while their outer clothes were torn from them and the ropes binding their hands removed. Left in his long-sleeved red shirt and jeans and Snape in his white button-up shirt and black trousers, they were shoved into the cell, the barred door slamming and locking behind them. Harry turned to glare at the Death Eaters through the bars.

“Get comfortable,” one of them said. “Gonna be here a while.”

The Death Eaters left then, leaving Harry and Snape alone in their new prison. Harry sighed and looked around. Besides the wall and door of bars, the rest of the cell was made of wet, sharp rock. There was no source of light except a single torch outside their cell and water dripped from the ceiling, creating puddles on the floor. He looked at Snape then and watched as the man moved to the back of the cell, sitting down with his back against the wall and arms draped over his bent knees. Harry walked over and sat as well, joining the professor.

“Did you know he knew?” Harry asked, mirroring the man’s position.

“I suspected,” Snape said. “I was getting called less and he seemed to not be sharing as much.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asked, bringing his hand to the back of his head when he realized it was throbbing. He winced at the blood on his fingertips. He allowed it when Snape pushed his head forward, moving his hair to see the injury for himself.

“What would it have mattered if you knew?” Snape said. “There is nothing you could have done to change it.”

“I guess,” Harry said, lifting his head back up when Snape removed his hands. “So, how screwed are we?”

“Fairly,” Snape said and Harry sighed again.

“Wonderful.”

Despite his pain and exhaustion, Harry growled and struggled as he was slammed to the floor, chains snaking up to bind his wrists to the floor, keeping him on his hands and knees. He looked up and watched as Snape was bound to the wall a few meters to his right. His turn to be on display and for Snape to watch. He glared up at Voldemort, sitting so casually in his ridiculously ostentatious throne and twirling his bone wand in his fingers. He wasn’t sure what day they were on; four, maybe five, possibly even six. It had all begun to blend together quite a while ago. All he knew was being the one on the floor was bad and he’d come to enjoy—as much as he could enjoy anything—the time spent with Snape in their cell after a torture session.

He wanted to hang his head in pure exhaustion, but refused to look away from Voldemort. He watched with hard eyes as Voldemort rose and slowly approached him.

“I admire your strength, Harry,” Voldemort drawled, very slowly circling Harry. “Such bravery you have shown, such…tenacity. Not to mention, of course, the loyalty that you and Severus clearly possess for each other. Such admirable traits.”

Harry glanced at Snape, tensing when Voldemort stopped behind him, completely out of sight. He met the dark eyes for a moment before his closed unintentionally at the agony ripping through his spine. His fingers curled on the floor, already destroyed fingernails unable to cause any damage to the wood. The wand tip at the base of his spine left and the pain stopped. He inadvertently gasped for breath only to have it taken away as Voldemort moved the tattered remains of his shirt sleeve aside and ran his wand down Harry’s arm, a trail of bubbling flesh left in its wake. Automatically, he tried to pull away, but the chains held him in place. He bit back a whimper. They’d only just begun; he had to hold out longer than that.

The wand left again, but the searing pain of the burn remained. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, instantly finding Snape’s again. They were filled with their own pain and exhaustion, but also something else. Harry was fairly certain it was worry and he only saw it directed at him. Snape was worried about him. It made his stomach clench.

He was distracted from the professor as he was suddenly hit in about a dozen places with deep Slicing Curses. They were quickly followed up with a strong Cruciatus and then a Gouging Curse which took a chunk of flesh from his right hip. Here he gasped out in pain and shook, feeling blood pour down his leg and pool under his knee. Another Cruciatus ravaged him and then, finally, he screamed as a Bone-Breaking Curse snapped a rib. He wanted to collapse, but he forced himself to stay on his hands and knees.

It continued for he didn’t know how long. He never knew. The cuts, the burns, the Cruciatus. He found himself grateful that Voldemort didn’t seem to be in the mood for the Lashing Curse that day, but he was officially forced from his hands and knees at the curse that acted like a razor wire, wrapping around his arms and legs and squeezing, slicing the skin open as they tightened. He collapsed, small whimpers brushing through his lips.

He was given little reprieve as fingers suddenly gripped his hair and yanked his head up and back, pulling him up so his chained arms were stretched as far as possible. He bit his tongue as knives carved into his skull at Voldemort’s touch and the sheer agony of the chains pulling at his shattered wrist.

“I want to hear you beg for your life,” Voldemort whispered into his ear.

“Not gonna happen,” Harry snapped, somewhat breathlessly but as hatefully as possible.

“Oh, I think it will,” Voldemort said. “Or maybe you’ll beg for his.”

Harry’s head was forced to turn and look at Snape. Their eyes met again and narrowed at each other. Somehow, Voldemort had gotten it right. They wouldn’t beg for themselves, but, if it got to that point, they would beg for each other. It was why Voldemort had them watch each other be tortured. It was just another form, mental and emotional rather than physical.

His hair was released and his body thrown back to the floor, forcing him to catch himself on his broken wrist, a break that was steadily getting worse. He could feel himself shaking and he could hardly think through the fresh pain that just compounded with the pain he’d already been in for the last however many days.

A third Cruciatus tore through him and nothing could stop him from screaming and whimpering. It seemed never-ending and he fell off his knees again, landing on his gouged hip. He screamed again as, while reeling from that pain, the wand ran down his right calf, effectively skinning the area. Tears poured down his face and his throat was hoarse, hardly able to produce anymore cries as the last Cruciatus set him on fire.

“Such resolve,” Voldemort drawled. “Do not fret. You will both break before long. Take them.”

Harry’s awareness was fading in and out as his chains were removed and he was dragged between two Death Eaters down to their cell. He was thrown in and he whimpered as every injury was jostled by his impact with the floor, unable to break his fall in any way. He heard the cell door clang shut and then there were gentle hands on him.

“Come on, Potter,” Snape said quietly, and helped get him to the back of the cell where he sat and pulled Harry’s head onto his thigh, laying him on his back. The tears on his back were still agonizing, but they were a day or two old and pressure on them was better than anything he’d just received. He settled the best he could, focusing on the hand sitting lightly on his head.

“Is it hard for you to watch?” Harry asked quietly after a long and comfortable—well, not physically comfortable—silence. It was a stupid question, but it was hard to think.

“Extremely,” Snape said, just as quietly.

“Do you know how long we’ve been here?” Harry asked.

“I believe we are going into day seven,” Snape said, his hand beginning to move through Harry’s hair.

“We’re not getting out, are we?” Harry asked and, when the hand stilled in his hair, he opened his eyes. He was taken aback by the raw pain in the dark eyes above him.

“No,” Snape said so quietly Harry barely heard it. The long fingers resumed their movement.

“What do you think will happen? When we’re gone?” Harry asked.

“I have to have faith in the Order,” Snape said, leaning his head back against the wall.

“Professor?”

“Rest, Potter,” Snape said gently, but firmly, and Harry obeyed, closing his eyes and drifting off to gentle fingers.

Harry looked down at the long pinky resting on his, ignoring the blood pooling around their hands. It was the only contact they could manage unless, of course, they just collapsed against each other. They weren’t there quite yet, though, so a pinky had to be sufficient comfort. He squeezed his eyes shut as Snape screamed beside him. They refused to beg, but they’d given up on holding back screams. He didn’t know what was being done, never moving his eyes from the pinky that had come to rest on his the moment they were chained down. They both knew this was it. Today would be their last and that pinky was a promise that he wasn’t alone at the end.

“What a fitting end, to have a traitor die on his knees.”

Harry looked up finally, glaring at Voldemort who stood over them, twirling his wand again.

“A far better reason than the last twenty years,” Snape said and Harry smirked at the man’s everlasting snark.

“A position you once relished,” Voldemort said.

“Before I knew worth,” Snape said.

Voldemort sneered. “Is he your worth, Severus?” he said, pointing at Harry with his wand.

“Every bit of it,” Snape said and Harry’s heart pounded at the declaration.

“And what is he worth? Your life?” Voldemort drawled.

“Everything,” Snape said and, unbidden, tears rolled down Harry’s cheeks. Why did he always find someone to care just in time to lose them?

“What a shame,” Voldemort said. “Harry Potter, destined to have no one.”

Harry glared through his tears, feeling the pinky try to curl around his as though to dispute Voldemort’s words. “Sounds a lot like you.”

Voldemort snarled and a deep cut appeared on Harry’s cheek. He hardly felt it amongst his other injuries and pain.

“Enough of this. I am through,” Voldemort said and Harry tensed at the flash in the red eyes. “Say goodbye, Harry, to your dear Severus. I will take everyone from you.”

Harry finally turned his head to look at Snape, the dark eyes already locked on him. There was pain there, and exhaustion and resignation, but there was something else.

Affection.

Harry’s stomach clenched, his heart pounded, and his eyes stung. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t say goodbye to someone else. He wanted this and, damn it, he deserved it! He refused to let this be the end.

“You will always be my biggest regret, Severus,” Voldemort said, raising his wand.

Harry turned to Voldemort and his eyes blazed. Heat built in his entire body. “I will end you,” he promised.

Voldemort sneered at him before shouting, “Avada Kedavra!”

“No!” Harry screamed as he watched the familiar green light leave the bone wand and head for Snape. He felt the heat inside him explode outwards at his scream and felt a strange rush of power encompass him. A white light burst before his eyes, blinding him and forcing them shut. The power around him continued to build and air rushed all around, whipping his hair and tattered clothing. He was vaguely aware of the floor disappearing from beneath him and an odd feeling of both falling and not. Then, it stopped and he hit the ground as though dropped from a very short height.

The power disappeared and the rushing air stopped. He was dazed and in agony, his focus waning quickly, but then his senses began to kick in. Beneath him was no longer a hard, wooden floor slick with their blood, but cool, smooth grass and rough dirt. The air was no longer stale, indoor air heavy with their blood, sweat, and tears, but, instead, a fresh warm breeze. A light heat hit his skin, indicating sunlight. Rustling leaves, trickling water, and chirping birds were a far cry from their screams and the dripping water in their cell.

He forced his eyes open, blinking at the brightness of the sun he’d already felt. He frowned as he realized he was staring at deep green blades of grass, his cheek pressed to the ground. He slowly raised his head and pushed up slightly onto his forearms. He gazed around, becoming steadily more shocked and confused as he took in his surroundings.

Grass was everywhere, flowers breaking up the green with various colours. To his right, several meters away, was a massive oak tree, similar to the one at Hogwarts. In front of him was what appeared to be wheel tracks as though made by a wagon running alongside a sparkling river. Far down the river, but still in sight was a water wheel, set up to gather the river water for some purpose he couldn’t see. To his left, beyond the meadow he appeared in, was a line of trees, the start to a dense forest. Also to his left was Snape who was staring around with just as much shock and confusion, and very much alive.

“Professor?” he said, bringing the dark eyes to him. “Where the bloody hell are we?”