499Disc: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
STILL ALIVE
2
He opened his eyes. Someone was standing above him, but they jerked back as soon as he moved. He blinked. It was light. Really, really light. He blinked again. "Ow."
"Don't move – not until I tell you to," said a voice.
"What?" he croaked. His voice hadn't improved, that was for sure. He blinked. The room damn near refused to come into focus, but when it did… he saw Madam Pomfrey. It was the hospital wing.
I'm here. I made it.
He groaned as he tried to move and his joints shot simultaneously with pain. "W-why?"
"Can you flex your fingers?" asked the woman, eyeing him with her wand pointed between his eyes.
"Yes," he answered, trying. "The ones that are still there, anyway." He hadn't expected Pomfrey to find this funny, and she didn't.
"Good," she said. "I'm going to stun you again now."
"Wait!" he protested. "Look, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm completely unarmed, for one thing. And let's face it, I'm not exactly going to be stunning victor if it comes to a fight, yes?"
The wand was lowered. "Who are you?"
He had been warned this might happen, but he hadn't expect it to hurt. "No one, at the moment," he answered, annoyed. "Is it morning?"
"Yes."
He shifted on the bed and looked down at himself. He was still wearing the damp robes. "I was given orders not to move you," said Pomfrey, almost apologetically. "Or wake you up. But it's hard to test motor function when the patient's unconscious."
He looked up at her. It had probably cost her a lot to leave a patient in the state he was currently in.
"Well… would it be all right if I moved myself?"
"What?"
"Well… it's just… I haven't had a wash for quite a long time…"
Pomfrey sniffed, as if to point out that she believed this. "You're not getting up."
"Please? I promise not to… well, whatever it is you're afraid that I'll do."
"Run away?"
He stared at her. "Why would I come all the way here just to run away? Pretty stupid, don't you think?"
She frowned. "I'd be very surprised if you could even stand up. The list of injuries is horrendous."
"Thank you." He knew it was the wrong thing to do by a long shot, but he was going to enjoy his freedom while he had it. He cleared his own mind, and located the nurse's, letting a small drop of compliance slip through into her consciousness without her noticing. Thank you, my friend, for Legilimancy.
"Oh very well," said Pomfrey, looking unsure as to why she was agreeing. "The bathroom's over that way. I'll check on you periodically in case you drown."
OOO
"Hello, Harry."
The door closed. He hadn't recognised the Death Eaters that had dragged him up here, two weeks after his arrival, but he recognised this one.
"Lestrange."
She giggled with apparent delight. "You remember me!"
He glared at her, tugging against the tight leather bonds that fastened his hands and feet to the table. "You murdered Sirius."
She put a finger to her lips. "Shh. No nasty accusing stories. I was trying to stun him and he fell over. Poor Siwius…" she sighed in that disgusting mock baby voice. "Dead nearly two years and Hawwy still loves him." He watched as she crossed to a bench and drew aside the cloth that covered the instruments there. Most of them looked sharp.
He laughed. "So you're Voldemort's chief torturer, are you? Doesn't it say something about him that he can't afford anyone better than a mad Azkaban convict to torture his worst enemy?"
She picked up a knife with a handle crafted in the shape of a dragon. It twinkled in the torchlight, making him squint. Two weeks without light, and little food and water. His voice was already hoarse, his stomach begging him to do something about the damn situation. I will, he told it. Just watch me.
"Of course it does," said Bellatrix, smiling horribly. She leant over and traced a gentle design on his shirt with the knife.
"It says that there is no one better."
OOO
The mirror was lying to him. That was clearly the only explanation. It was a hospital wing mirror, and was probably charmed to make you look horrible so you'd want to stay and not get out of bed before you were ready.
He'd had a bath, okay. It had felt great despite the bumping of raw wounds against the cold stone of the tub and he'd had to apply soap and shampoo with his left hand because the stump where his ring finger had been cut off was still open and infected – although it looked surprisingly clean even before he'd washed. Madam Pomfrey was obviously incapable of not trying to heal someone in her hospital wing, even if they were suspected of… well, whatever he was suspected of.
And okay, he was clean. His skin was a completely different colour, though that could just be that he had proper light to see by for the first time in years. But… still…
He looked like a monster. Even if you ignored the long hair (how could it have got so long in three years? It's always been a little crazily fast, but this…) and the beard, which seemed to have moss growing in it, his body looked like it had gone through a meat grinder. Scarred lacerations scored his chest, back, and the backs of his legs. He couldn't see the in-between bits properly, but he could imagine how bad they must look – he grimaced, he didn't want to imagine. He could see every single one of his ribs through his skin. There was an almost neat row of double puncture wounds down his inner arm… and there were scars everywhere. His hand was maimed and oozing. The gash on his eyebrow was infected – no wonder, he'd got that during his escape… The scars around his eye… it was unbelievable that he could still see through it…
His scar was missing, the one that had been there for a lot longer. At least, it looked like it was. He touched the area, gingerly, and felt the familiar raised line on his forehead.
Well, he could do something about part of it, at least. After a quick search in some of the bottom drawers of the chest under the mirror, he found a razor. He met his own eyes in the mirror. They were not the colour he remembered.
Right. Let's bring me back.
oO0Oo
He lay in a broken heap on the floor. He hurt all over, his right arm was still in agony. Somewhere, deep, deep down inside him, he cursed Bellatrix Lestrange with all his might for the hundredth time. But it never worked.
He tried desperately not to move, even when he heard the voices coming down the passageway.
Oh God, please don't be coming for me…
He could see the passing of the flame torch from behind his closed eyelids, almost feel the scrap of warmth on his skin. They walked past him. He felt his chest relax in relief, and it hurt. He could hear the frightened whimpers of the other prisoners around him. A barred gate slid open.
"Let me go!"
Someone new, then. A neighbour, by the sounds of it.
"You can't leave me down here!"
The voice was very familiar, but no so much that he could match a name to a face. After two years he wasn't even sure he'd recognise Hagrid's rough baritone if it called out to him.
The gate slammed shut. He opened his eyes – he wasn't far from the spot in the wall where there was a small chink in the stonework. He and Mr. Jenson had talked through that hole when he'd been there… until they'd taken him away and he hadn't come back.
He used his left arm to help him crawl over to the chink. "Hey," he whispered. His own voice surprised him. How long had he been here now? A year? Two? Two years of saying nothing but screams. And talking to Mr. Jenson. That seemed so long ago.
Something moved on the other side of the wall. "Over here," he croaked. He heard the prisoner move over to him. "You okay?" he asked.
"No I'm not," the voice snapped. "Who the hell are you?"
"I live here."
"Oh, well, good for you. You can stay here, then. I'm planning on getting the hell out as soon as possible."
He laughed. It hurt his throat, but there was nothing he could do now that didn't hurt. "I thought that, once," he said. "There's only one way out of here."
"What? What is it?" asked the voice.
"Death."
The other prisoner breathed out in exasperation. He heard him move as if he was settling against the wall. "What good are you, old man?"
"Excuse me? I'm eighteen. Well. Possibly nineteen. Old yourself."
A pause.
"How long have you been here?" asked the voice.
"No idea. But coming up on a couple years, I ?"
"Today? All of ten minutes. They'll let me out before long." The voice sounded less than sure.
"No one gets let out of here."
"Will you stop with the 'we're in here forever' nonsense? There's always a way out."
The fly of recognition that had been buzzing around his brain suddenly darted through one ear and hit home. "Malfoy?"
Another pause. "You know me?"
"What the hellare you doing –" a bout of coughing overcame him. His lungs bounced against his splintered ribs and he doubled up in pain. They knew how to make the torture last, here. You didn't have to be in the room, with the instruments. After a while your own body would start punishing you.
"Who are you?"
"Don't be an ass," he spluttered through the coughing. "It's me, Harry."
"Potter? What the hell are you – you're dead!"
He laughed. Then he regretted it. "Am I? I didn't notice."
"You… what?"
"Do I sound dead to you?"
Another pause. "Can you see through this hole?" Malfoy asked.
"The stone's two foot thick."
"So?"
"So no. Besides, you probably wouldn't recognise me."
"I bet you look disgusting."
"Overgrown, few missing fingers, not too bad. It could be worse. I count myself extremely lucky to have both eyes, for example."
"They cut off your fingers?"
"Just one. Long time ago."
"That's disgusting, Potter."
"Call me Harry."
"What? Why?"
Harry leaned back against the wall, not even bothering to try and understand why the sound of this voice was so comforting to him. Maybe because it was the only one he'd heard in months that hadn't belonged to someone who was torturing him.
"Because no one else here does."
OOO
4. Beth's Theme – I'll Try – Jonatha Brooke