As soon as Tom fell silent, Mike took over, leaving the Slytherin to be yelled at by James.

The rant was much the same as many others Tom had been forced to endure since first opening up to Snape. ‘How dare you tell Harry’s secrets?’ ‘We agreed not to say anything about that’ and so on and so forth. After about half an hour of continual yelling, James finally ran himself out.

“Are you done now?” Tom asked, just to make sure. James glared at him fiercely, but gave a curt nod. “Good, then maybe you’ll listen. Did you see It when It was released? Have you noticed how much It has grown?” Tom stalked over to the side of the cot and jabbed a finger at the underside. “Look at it!”

Beneath the taut cloth of the cot, the cardboard shoebox that held It rattled and a fleshy protuberance bearing a vague resemblance to a finger pushed the lid up enough to poke out.

“I’ve seen It before, thanks,” James said stubbornly.

“You ignorant, naïve bastard,” Tom hissed. “Don’t you understand how incredibly bad it would be if It broke out of It’s box and we couldn’t keep control of it anymore? It is getting more powerful as It grows, It almost completely depleted Harry’s magic in less than two minutes! If It gets out and we can’t put It back, It might render Harry a squib, if It doesn’t kill him outright! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING!”

“YES!” James shouted back. “Yes, I’m listening. What do you want me to do about it! Do you have a bigger box? Do you know how to keep It from growing? Do you know how to calm It down? Because I sure don’t. I know It is a problem, and I know we should do something before It causes a disaster, but I don’t know what, or how. Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose.

“No, James,” he said softly, hanging his head. “I am sorry I got so worked up, but don’t you see?” he pleaded. “If we don’t know what to do, maybe Snape –”

“Professor Snape,” Amelia corrected. Tom spared a moment to sneer at her.

“Maybe Professor Snape can come up with an idea or two that could help us.”

“Why would that greasy git do anything for us?” James demanded. “He hates us. Even now, the only reason he’s even talking to us is because of his professional curiosity. He just can’t accept that there’s something about Harry he doesn’t know, a puzzle he can’t solve, so he’s trying to figure us out. The most you can say for the man is that he wants to defeat Voldemort. Ask anyone – Foster, Mike, John; even Mummy knows it – you’re the only one who refuses to see that Snape does not, and never has, wanted to help us.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Oh please, you think I don’t know that? What do you take me for, a Hufflepuff? I know very well he’s only helping us to satisfy his own curiosity and to help win the war, but who cares what his motives are. He is helping us, he’s helping Harry, the reasons why don’t matter. Even if he doesn’t care about us as a person, he’s still doing what’s best: he’s listening when any of us need to talk, he stopped Him, he’s made sure Harry won’t go back to the Dursleys’; and all that out of curiosity and responsibility.” He snorted. “That’s good enough for me.”

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Severus watched with feigned disinterest as Tom retreated and the sullen, testy Mike emerged. Mike didn’t say anything, though, and glared instead at the floor of the cell, as if lost in thought. The professor couldn’t help but wonder what went on inside the head of someone with MPD. Was Tom perhaps having an argument? Did Boy need to be consoled? Or were they all just waiting for something to happen, leaving Mike as the placeholder until they knew which alter would be needed?

It was so frustrating to be sitting in silence, when he just knew his only companion was having a conversation without him. Well, Severus might not have other people in his head, but he could certainly keep himself occupied. After all, it had been months since he last recited to himself the entire alphabetical list of potions ingredients, starting with aardvark tongue and ending with zub-zub juice.

However, such an enterprising venture was, unfortunately, doomed to failure. The potions master had just made it to Nordic ice crystals, long after night had fallen, when he heard loud, raucous footsteps coming closer. From the sounds, Severus estimated there were about six in the party, but it was difficult to determine, as any sound in the thrice-damned dungeon echoed off of every wall and bar, multiplying like rabbits on Aphrodite’s Elixer.

“Potter,” he hissed, making his voice as loud as he dared. Mike’s head lifted slightly to glare at him. “We have company.”

In an instant, Mike was gone and Tom had taken his place. For just a moment, Severus allowed himself to marvel that he had become so skilled at seeing the shift between alters and identifying who he was facing, but then the footsteps were upon them and the bent door was being unlocked.

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Hermione finished the last line of the pentagram delicately, holding her transfigured paintbrush between thumb and forefinger. Every part of the shape – every line, point, and face – had to be perfect for the ritual to work. At first, she had felt so guilty that she was working on illegal and supposedly Dark magic, but once she had gotten into it, pentagram rituals were fascinating. It was a good thing she had paid attention in arithmancy, so that she could figure out the exact angle the point of the star had to be in order to face the rising sun. It had been a long, tedious, and absolutely wonderful process, but finally she was finished – the pentagram was painted with the Scrying Potion on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

Malfoy had followed her around as she worked, putting a candle on a candlestick at each point of the star, and now he carefully set the brazier in the middle.

“Ready, Granger?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Hermione nodded and began lighting the candles, one by one, naming each with the ancient words required for the View From Heaven ritual. She didn’t know what the words meant, or even what language they were in, but they sounded impressive. Then again, knowing the wizarding world and its history, she would hardly be surprised if they translated to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”.

The Slytherin stayed in the center, chanting along with her and sending small flame spells at the brazier each time Hermione lit a candle. So far, none of them had taken, but she wasn’t worried; that was part of the ritual. Finally, at the moment the last candle was lit, the flame in the bowl roared to life. Hermione moved to the side and took out her magically enhanced map of Europe (See from Ireland to Russia at once, or gaze at the Ruins in Greece! The Enchanter’s Map can look as close as you need or as wide as you want. © Omni-Magic Inc.) and laid it out on the mauled table, ready to focus in wherever she might need to.

Malfoy raised both hands, his left still holding his wand, and started chanting the many, many lines that made up the core of the ritual. From what she had read, the ritual could theoretically be performed with the core alone, but it was much more powerful and accurate with the pentagram. As soon as the incantation took hold, Malfoy’s vision would be propelled into space, then fall toward the scrying target. They would only get that one chance to find an exact location before the spell would be too focused. However, once the target was found, Malfoy’s sight would be returned to the Shack and the scrying image would appear, for both of them to see, in the flames of the brazier.

Indeed, that seemed to be how it happened, from the Gryffindor’s point of view. There was a flash of magic as the spell took hold, then Malfoy went rigid, eyes wide and a little green. Moments later, he started calling out directions.

“West Europe,” he shouted, Hermione focused the map a bit to the left half. “Northwest Europe, British Isles, Britain, Wales, Anglesey, Caer y Twr. He’s at Caer y Twr Castle, Angelesey Island, Wales!”

Hermione circled and starred that location on her map, wrote a quick note to Dumbledore, and sent it with Hedwig, whom she had brought to the shack two nights ago. As soon as that was done, she joined Malfoy, who was shaking his head dizzily, by the brazier.

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Tom and Snape stood and waited grimly as the door opened. As their eyes adjusted to the light, they found themselves looking straight into the red eyes of Voldemort, with six masked Death Eaters at his back. The dark wizard’s snake-like mouth was smiling.

“Hello Harry, Severus,” he hissed. “I have returned to deliver your punishment. I trust you have eagerly awaited my arrival.”

“About as eagerly as might I might await being locked in a bathroom with Pansy, Mr. Riddle.” Tom shot back pleasantly. Snape glared at him, but he thought he saw the man’s mouth twitch in what might have been amusement.

“How dare you, insolent boy,” Voldemort growled. “You will address me properly!”

“Of course, I apologize,” said Tom, faking remorse. Snape’s eyes widened. “I suppose I just forgot who I was talking to; I must pay proper respect to your lineage.” He paused, watching with morbid glee as Voldemort seemed to preen (as much as a disgusting snake-man can, anyway). “After all,” he said, “Mr. Riddle was your father, you’re Tommy Riddle Junior!”

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Draco gasped, horrified. What in Merlin’s name did Potter think he was doing, taunting the Dark Lord? Anyone who was anyone knew better than to draw attention to Voldemort’s father. The idiot Gryffindor was acting like he was in a petty squabble with, well, with Draco, not facing painful death by torture at the hands of a madman. Then again, he supposed desperation did odd things to a person’s mind; it seemed to have turned Potter into a Slytherin.

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Severus narrowed his eyes at the boy; what was Tom thinking? Taunting the Dark Lord was one of those things you could file easily under Bad Ideas. At the same time, though, he couldn’t find it in him to be too angry – they were already facing horribly torturous deaths already; if anything, angering the Dark Lord might hasten death along, so that it would be less painful. Besides, he couldn’t say the boy wasn’t the slightest bit amusing.

And it was a game two could play.

“Mr. Potter,” Severus chided. “Surely you must know that such childish shortenings are only appropriate before a wizard becomes of age. To be completely accurate, he is Thomas Riddle Junior.”

“Ah, my further apologies, then,” Tom mock-bowed. “To return to the topic, I believe my last comment should be amended: I awaited your arrival as eagerly as I would await being locked in a bathroom with Pansy Parkinson, Thomas Riddle Junior.”

“You are signing your own death warrant, boy,” Voldemort hissed. The wizard’s voice sounded calm, but his eyes were narrowed to glowing red slits and the hand on his wand clenched and unclenched at his side, as if itching to wring Potter’s neck.

“Not possible,” the Gryffindor said, shaking his head pompously. Severus realized Tom was gone, and thought he recognized John’s slightly voice, with it’s slightly more nasal quality. “As a Death Warrant can only be signed by a member of the Wizengamut upon conviction of a crime punishable by death, and as conviction of a felony – the only crimes punishable by death – is grounds for automatic dismissal from the Wizengamut, no one can sign their own Death Warrant.”

“Yet again, you show astounding lack of imagination, Potter,” Severus sneered, beginning to enjoy shoving his betrayal in the face of the man he once called ‘master’. “There was one case in 1643 wherein Reginald Baker, a member of the Wizengamut, was convicted of 407 misdemeanors. The punishments would have added up to over 200 years in jail. Baker opted instead for the death sentence and, as he was still a member of the Wizengamut at the time of his sentencing, signed his own Death Warrant.”

Severus didn’t quite know what was happening. Either the surrealism of the moment had driven away the hunger, thirst, and pain (both physical and mental), leaving him with a sharp clarity he hadn’t known in years…or the hunger, thirst, and physical and mental pain had driven him insane and he only thought that insanity was clarity. Both were distinct options at the moment.

However, it was a moot point, because the next word out of the Dark Lord’s mouth was “Silencio!”, leaving both Severus and Potter mute.

“I grow infinitely weary of your blathering,” Voldemort explained. “Now, I have been carefully monitoring the magic in this room since you both arrived, and what I found was quite interesting. Before my first visit, the magic of the room was constant; however, after the…incident, the level dropped sharply. In fact, it fell by far more than half – so Severus, I’m afraid you’re rather a lightweight compared to our Mr. Potter here – and though the level has been steadily rising since that time, it is slow going, and you, Harry, are still severely depleted. I take no pride in killing an unarmed and magically deficient opponent,” Voldemort sneered, “but I find I have no qualms about torturing one. Crucio!”

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Hermione had been so glad to find Harry with Professor Snape that, when a tall, pale man with rather snake-like features walked into the room, she hadn’t paid him much mind, preferring to stare at the friend she hadn’t seen in over a week. However, it soon became clear just who that hideous face belonged to, and she had felt her heart drop all the way down to her feet.

It was clear Malfoy recognized him as well, because the Slytherin’s look of horror was growing with each word Harry said. Except, Hermione didn’t really think it was Harry talking; more likely to be Tom, or even some other personality. But whoever he was, he wasn’t handling the situation sanely, and he was going to get Harry killed!

Nothing could have shocked her more, at that moment, than to hear Snape go along with what not-Harry was doing. Hermione had never seen Voldemort face to face before, but she had little doubt that, if she were in that dungeon, she would be bawling, pleading for her life. She never felt less like a Gryffindor than right then, knees shaking and heart thumping in fear at an image.

When Voldemort cast that awful spell – one she’d only ever heard once before in her life – her own cry rang out with Harry’s. The Gryffindor, who had before stood straight and tall, practically threw himself to the floor with convulsions, his mouth open wider than she would have thought possible, screams of unimaginable pain and torture issuing forth like emotional vomit, breaking right through the silencing charm. His body jerked and contorted on the stone floor, hands like claws grasped at cracks and fissures, desperate to hold on to something, and his eyes rolled around in their sockets, showing mostly white. For an eternity, the spell was held, until the scream died out into a soundless contortion of the jaw, and Hermione could finally hear her own sobs. Unable to watch anymore, she shifted her gaze to Malfoy, who was watching the scene in pale, wide-eyed horror.

“By all that has magic,” the Slytherin choked; out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Voldemort lift his wand and end the spell, leaving Harry limp on the ground, blood beginning to ooze from his nose.

Malfoy ran to a corner of the room and emptied his stomach, cursing and gagging sounding equally loud in the empty room. Hermione felt she would have joined him if she could have moved, but her legs were frozen. Slowly, her eyes returned to the fire and the horror unfolding within.

She knew it would only get worse.

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“Look,” James said in an awed, hushed voice.

Tom looked where he pointed. They had blacked out – mercifully – during the last moments of the curse, and made an important discovery. Under the cot, as always, was the worn shoebox and the fleshy mass inside, but something was different.

“It’s growing again,” James whispered. “And getting stronger. It was actually pretty sedate, until the curse was cast; then It went berserk, started flailing and swelling and screaming.”

“Sounds like normal,” Tom muttered.

“That’s why I stopped Boy from taking away the pain,” continued James, heedless of the interruption, “It is regenerating itself on the malevolent magic.”

“So…what does that mean?” asked the Slytherin.

“That means,” said James, “that we need to get cursed a few more times.”

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“Enervate,” Voldemort cast the spell with malicious ease. “No fun having your victims sleep through their own torture. Isn’t that right, Severus?”

The potions master just glared back from where he was held fast by the arms of his former (very former) comrades. He had, again, attempted to stop Potter from getting hurt by a largely ineffective lunge at the Dark Lord, but he hadn’t taken more than a step before the other Death Eaters stepped in and grabbed him. Now he could do no more than watch as the malformed sadist tortured his student.

Potter jerked back to wakefulness, breathing so hard and fast Severus wondered if he might hyperventilate. The boy checked his surrounding in a glance, then smiled the smile of one who has nothing left to lose, and refuses to go out without the last word.

“Still insolent, Potter?” Voldemort tsked. “We’ll have to train you out of that, won’t we?”

“Wow, you’re really delusional,” said Potter, with awe. “Now you think you’re a lion tamer?”

“CRUCIO!” Voldemort shouted.

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Draco took several deep, steadying breaths behind a battered armchair. He had only seen the Cruciatus curse once before – when Moody had used it on that spider. It had seemed funny at the time, how the arachnid twisted and shuddered. But the spider hadn’t had a voice, and now he finally understood what had made Potter and the other Gryffindors pale when they saw the curse. Because if the spider had been able to cry out, it would have sounded just like Potter.

He had never heard a sound so full of pain and he never wanted to again, it made his insides writhe, made him want to beg for Potter’s pain to stop, just so he wouldn’t have to hear it anymore. Nothing could excuse causing such pain on another human.

Draco finally understood why it was called Unforgivable.

The Slytherin wiped his mouth on his dozen-galleon sleeve, for once uncaring about fashion or decorum, and started to move back toward Granger, only to hear that fateful word again. He cringed, bracing himself for the bloodcurdling scream that was sure to follow.

But it did not come.

Oh, Potter screamed, sure enough, but it was softer this time, and held a subtle edge of triumph that made Draco’s ears ring with hope. He knew Severus would have noticed the almost unnoticeable change as well, and that would make all the difference in the end.