Walk the Shadows

Eaters' curses ricocheted and hit manor walls, trees, and each other. Severus took a cutting curse to the leg, and his knee buckled beneath him, pain radiating from the wound. He gritted his teeth against it and grabbed the boy by the shirt collar, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him stumbling forward toward a space between Death Eaters that had opened when the curses rebounded.

Rather than just running, Potter swung the wand around and aimed again. He hurled more curses, 'Expelliarmus! Stupefy! Petrificus Tot—'

Amazingly, two of the curses found their marks, but then the boy lurched over the uneven ground and lost his footing. A bright band of yellow light slammed into him from the side. He crumpled, and lay still. Momentum made Severus trip over him, but he managed to catch hold of Potter's shirt and yank him up anyway. Though dead weight, the boy was light enough to carry, and Severus staggered forward with his burden, flinging Potter over one shoulder.

He knew that it was lost, that they had lost, and he was known for a spy. Still, he had to try and get them out. Taking possession of his wand once more, he hurled another curse behind him, and one to the side, still grinding forward. If he hadn't had the boy over his shoulder, he might have been able to duck the curse that brought him down at last. But 'what ifs' were pointless to consider in the split second between light and darkness, between the struggle to freedom, and the knowledge that he had failed. When he fell, he thrust the boy away, even now hoping to give him those last few feet. But he failed at that as well, and he knew true despair as the high shriek of Bellatrix's laughter assaulted his ears, just before darkness claimed him.

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Harry woke slowly, and in pain. He could hear voices around him, but could not make out the specifics. His eyes were gummed shut again, though the bandage was gone, as were the special glasses Severus had transformed for him. His head throbbed, and when he touched his temple, his fingers came away sticky with what he assumed was half-congealed blood. The stone floor was cold against his skin, and he realized the worst, perhaps, was that he was completely naked.

There were three, no four others in the room. He didn't know how he knew, any more than he knew how he had been able to sense where the Death Eaters were when he and Snape had been ambushed and pursued across the grounds. He just knew, as if he could see them by the pulse of their magic, even though his eyes couldn't see them. Maybe it was because he couldn't see with his eyes. No matter. He knew Snape was here, too, still unconscious on the floor nearby.

'He's awake,' said the high, cold voice he was most dreading, and he focused on that one pulse of magic, felt it ripple across his body like a dark wave, trying to drag him under.

The magic emanating from the wizard pressed on him from all sides, and kept him from drawing a full breath. His scar pulsed in time with the magic, a steady beat of agony. Voldemort took a step closer to him, and Harry forced himself up so he was sitting, brought his knees to his chest for some protection, and stared in the dark wizard's direction.

'You have abused my hospitality, Mr. Potter,' Voldemort said, and Harry shuddered at the threat in the man's voice. 'I am very disappointed.'

Harry lifted his chin a little more, not wanting to show fear. 'Yeah, well, get used to it,' he said, and was gratified to hear the other two in the room, both Death Eaters, he assumed, gasp at his impertinence.

But Voldemort did not rise to the bait. 'I am even more disappointed about my potions master's defection, I must admit. I had my suspicions, but . . .'

'Let me kill the traitor for you, my lord,' offered an excited voice. Bellatrix. Harry shuddered again, and not from the cold. 'Please. I brought him down for you! I should be the one—'

'Silence!' Voldemort roared. 'I shall decide who will have the honor of that sweet task, Bella.' The man turned briefly, and Harry could sense the build-up of power in him, like a rising tide. 'In the meantime, I find I must teach a lesson in manners to our little, blinded friend. Lucius, bring him to me.'

Harry sensed Lucius Malfoy approaching, and put his magical signature to memory, as he had with Bellatrix and Voldemort. With a soft chuckle and a whispered, 'You're mine, Potter,' Malfoy grabbed a fistful of Harry's hair and used it to drag him forward while Harry tried to get his feet under him.

A pointless exercise, as it turned out. The first Crucio had him writhing on the floor, and was a mere taste of what was to come. Snape woke at some point, Harry knew, but could do nothing to aid him, and although Harry tried, for his professor's sake, to hide the waves and crests of pain in that dark cupboard in his mind, it was a near impossible task. Finally, when Voldemort let Lucius rape him, to Bellatrix's jeering catcalls, and then took Harry himself, he broke utterly, screaming and pleading for their mercy.

But they had none.

Afterwards, when his voice was gone, and he was covered in blood, from wounds both internal and external, he could barely remember his name, never mind what made him think he could escape from this monster in the first place. All he knew – all he deserved -- was pain.

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It was nearly dawn when the boy finally broke. Severus was honestly surprised he had lasted so long. Lying on his side, in a full body bind, he could not turn away, could not even close his eyes to the boy's torment. He knew when Potter realized Severus had woken, knew because of the change in his demeanor, and how he struggled all the harder to remain stoic and separate from the horrors they put him through. Part of him marveled at the very idea that Potter should want to appear brave before his greasy git of a professor, but a larger part of him grieved for what the sadistic bastards did to him.

It wasn't until Lucius and the Dark Lord each took their gruesome pleasure from the boy by force that Potter resorted to begging and sobbing, telling his captors over and over again that he was sorry.

Severus found himself angrier than he had ever been in his life. He had never excelled at wandless magic, though he could do a passable Lumos, and Scourgify. But the unnerving cries of the boy on the floor near him, underscored by the hideous laughter of the madwoman, Bellatrix, drove him to new heights of rage. His magic boiled through him, igniting his blood, his bones, everything. The bonds holding him vanished in an eruption of light and sound, drowning everything else in a roar of thunder, and he flung himself at the boy in the ensuing chaos. He pried a tiny ring off his left pinky, and pressed the stone before jamming the ring into the curl of Potter's fist. If it was going to work it would be in just three seconds, two, one . . .

The boy vanished, very much to his surprise.