corridor again, coupled with his pounding head, made the hallway spin around him like a carousel, but faster. Too fast. Mere steps from their destination, Harry's body contracted with a violent spasm, trying to expel whatever it could from his stomach. But there was nothing in it except for blood, which sprayed bright red on the floor and walls and even the door as he retched again and again. The world quickly swirled to black.
Back in the great hall of Topsham Manor, Severus Snape watched with dread as the Boy Who Lived was helped from the room. He knew what the Dark Lord was doing, of course, and he wasn't sure he could do anything to prevent it. He had wanted to go with Potter, to make sure the Dark Lord's orders were properly carried out, but he had to maintain his bloody cover. And no matter how much the wizarding world foolishly relied on the continued existence of a not-quite-sixteen-year-old boy, he could not be seen voluntarily helping him. Not by anyone here, at any rate.
To say he had been distressed by the condition they had found the boy in, at his relatives' home, was an understatement of giant proportion. A whole shift in his world view had occurred between one breath and the next. Far from the spoiled snotling he'd expected to find, surrounded by the largesse of a doting family, this boy had been starved and abandoned, left to die in filth and decay.
And when Potter still managed to raise his wand and disarm Nott, with a mere whisper of an incantation, Severus had wanted to shout his relief. The boy, despite appearances, had not broken. Of course, Severus could not cheer, would not, even if he had known how, but he had done the next best thing and set Bellatrix Lestrange up for punishment. Never had he wanted to hurt someone more than at the moment she brought her wand to bear on the boy. The
Now, in the great hall, Lord Voldemort had his followers come to him, one by one to kiss the hem of his robe, to grovel at his feet and thank him desperately for the favor of his attention. When it was Severus' turn, he played his part, even allowed the push of the Dark Lord's mind into his own. He showed the Dark Lord his memory of Bellatrix's perfidy again; perhaps Voldemort would punish her some more. And he showed memories of Hogwarts, and the brat's annoying, defiant arrogance that had always made Severus so angry, as well as a taste of confusion about what Voldemort was planning to do with the boy. The Dark Lord would accept these memories as proof of Severus' loyalty, but in truth, Severus had little confusion about what these plans were.
The Dark Lord would try and turn Potter against his puppeteers, would attempt to subvert Dumbledore's hold on Potter's loyalty. Take by cunning what he could not have by force, in true Slytherin fashion. If Lord Voldemort insinuated the right things, peppered his lies with just enough of the truth about Dumbledore's scheming and manipulations, and reminded the boy just often enough of who had actually saved him from death this summer . . . Well. Severus wasn't as concerned for Potter's physical well-being as he was for the boy's soul.
For the sake of the light, and in honor of the Boy Who Would Not Break, Even When He Clearly Should Have, Severus had to protect Potter from such shadow, or die trying.
Three days passed before Harry saw Voldemort again. Three days of pain relief potions, healing potions and assorted medical charms. Three days of light food, to ease his stomach back to rights. Broth alone, then bread soaked in broth, then a thin oatmeal porridge which grew progressively thicker, so that by the third day, he was offered a lunch of watered tea, plain boiled potatoes and mashed peas. Though he had one or more caretakers with him around the clock -- no sign of Snape, though, or Bellatrix either, for which he was grateful -- Harry refused to let them help him eat. The more he could do for himself the better, and he would not let this lot use his infirmity against him. Once he was better, he would have to duel Voldemort; he knew that, and wanted to just get it over with.
The Death Eaters had ensconced him in a bedroom nothing like the one on Privet Drive. This one had a high double bed (that he unfortunately needed assistance getting into) hung with sheer blue curtains, with generous down pillows and sheets so soft it was like sleeping on a cloud. And sleep is what he did, mostly, for three days, when he wasn't eating or covered in blankets and propped in one of the chairs by the small fireplace. The room never seemed warm enough to him, even though it was the middle of summer. Harry had been given clothes, too: robes, shirts, woolen trousers and sweaters, along with an assortment of underthings, but he was constantly chilled and had a cough that would not go away despite the ministrations of his personal 'nurses.'
A door in one wall led to the en suite bath, and Harry had soaked a long time in the sunken marble tub, soothing his aching bones. He'd scrubbed himself raw with a soft flannel and lightly scented soap, after refusing to let anyone help him there, either. That had provoked the first argument with the Death Nurses, and one Voldemort had apparently decided in his favor. At least, Harry assumed so. He'd refused to let Nott and Avery into the bathroom with him and gotten so frustrated with their heavy handed attempts to force him that he'd lashed out with magic. Everything glass in the bedroom, from mirrors to lamps to the one tall window, had exploded, showering everyone but Harry with stinging slivers. Avery had stormed out, and come back minutes later, pale and shaking, with word that 'Potter is to take his own damned bath.'
A small victory, perhaps, but one that Harry cherished. The display of uncontrolled magic had cost him, though, setting back his recovery by at least an additional day.
Another victory came when Harry finally dressed himself completely without assistance or being reduced to wheezing. That was the morning of the fourth day.
After breakfast -- applesauce and dry toast dunked in tea -- Harry was sitting in the chair before the fire. A heavy quilt covered his legs. He looked around when the door opened to admit Voldemort, flanked by two more of his Death Eaters, these masked, unlike his nurses. Voldemort motioned for his two Death Nurses to leave. Nott bowed and hurried out, followed by Rookwood. The two new guards stayed by the door as the thin form of Lord Voldemort, swathed head to toe in lengths of black cloth, moved closer.
Harry could feel the power flowing off the man, and the lightning shaped scar on his forehead pulsed with sudden fire, almost taking his breath away. He clapped a hand to his forehead and bent over at the waist. Voldemort remained silent, watching Harry as he gathered the pain into a tight bundle and shut it in the special cupboard in his mind. Taking a slow breath once he was able to see again, Harry looked up at his captor.
'Forgive me if I don't get up,' he said quietly, and unflinchingly held the red-tinged snake-like gaze.
'I am told you are recuperating well,' Voldemort replied. 'Have I been misinformed?'
'No,' Harry said. 'I'm getting better. . . .' He rushed on before he lost courage, 'How long have I got?'
Voldemort frowned, a turning down of thin lips and a wrinkling of his nearly white, hairless brow. 'For what?'
'Until you've decided I've recovered enough to kill me. That's why you're doing this, isn't it? So you can fight me when I'm a proper opponent and not a weakling.'
The shadow of a smile touch the man's lips, and he inclined his head minutely. 'If it pleases you to think so.'
