Unforgivably Cursed

Chapter Four: Undone

"Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak." - Matthew 26:41

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Harry Potter had now spent a full day trapped in the harsh captivity of his tiny cell; a full twenty-four hours spent feeling like his own sanity was progressively diminishing. It almost surprised him that he was still alive; the many insufferable hours of repetitious mental torture surely should have killed him by now, no? Well, regardless, if he was sure of nothing else, Harry Potter was absolutely positive that his time spent in this degrading cage had been (and still was) a psychologically-destroying agony greater than he could ever have imagined.

Especially disorienting was the chest-stabbing thought of Aunt Petunia, of what had happened to her after they'd been Apparated against their will from the kitchen. It was the last Harry had seen of his aunt, those last moments when she'd been right there in front of him in the kitchen. Except then without warning they were only to, before either of them knew it, be entrenched in the pull of (seemingly) Kingsley Shacklebolt, who'd spontaneously somehow Apparated into the Dursleys' kitchen; then in less than a heartbeat everything, all of Harry's surroundings and conscious thought, vaporized away, leaving only darkness to overcome Harry completely.

Not surprisingly, the consecutive inevitable thought of Uncle Vernon and Dudley's fate thereafter was almost too haunting to fathom. He felt certain somehow that the worst-possible outcome was true, that Uncle Vernon and Dudley had both been subsequently killed in some terrible way. Harry imagined they'd probably walked into the scenario of Aunt Petunia and himself seemingly having disappeared only to be blindsided by a personal attack, except in their case the two were probably just the burdensome "leftovers" and, in inevitable consequence, just killed off without a second thought. What the foul players behind this menace desired on the contrary with Aunt Petunia, Harry had not a clue, though her stronger knowledge and connection to the wizarding world, however slight, certainly had something to do with it. Maybe Aunt Petunia knew more than she was telling him even still! The Ministry or whoever had to have gone through quite a lot of trouble to capture her in the ever-so-urgent way they did. Sighing as he stiflingly tried assessing his wistful thoughts, Harry felt all these baffling notions if possible make the pain of his headache grow sharper, the senselessness disguising all of it practically maddening him...

Antsy as can be, he sat rigidly on the hard stone floor here in this tiny underground prison cell of his, legs crossed and back arched over in weakness and shame. No one had come "visit" him since Fudge, and that had been so many hours ago; each passing hour seemed to somehow outstretch painfully past eternity, every moment maximally torturous for him. A million unhelpful, heavy self-defeating thoughts ran simultaneously across his brain nonstop, none which made sense and none which seemed to even stick long enough to be rationally pondered. Not surprisingly, it was not long of this solitary, excruciating mental torture before Harry began to truly sense his sanity breaking, like cold water slipping out of the cup of one's own hands. At times he really wished he could just cry honestly, "throw in the towel" for a self-pitying moment in twisted ease (so to speak), but Harry was far too dehydrated for the strength to do even that.

All his thoughts were dark and clouded with uncertainty. 'How can all this truly be happening to me? I reckon I'll go bloody mad if I'm stuck here much longer -- I mean look at me: I'm sitting trapped in a dungeon cell here for a crime I did NOT commit, and yet there's not a single damn thing I can do about any of it!' Transfixed stubborn in all his unresolved anger, Harry couldn't help thinking miserable thoughts like this as he sensed his hate for his present dilemma rapidly increasing. 'How am I even going to go on like this, surviving, how could anybody have the will to live on with the knowledge and strife of this? How can I be seriously put through this bloody godforsaken inhumanity?! How could no one have seen how very, VERY wrong all this was and stopped it from happening?' He in fact had so much anger brewing inside himself, overheating all-throughout him, that it really served to be just one more thing to further exhaust him. This plight in isolation was not compatible with human life, plain and simple...

In particular, however, it did indeed seem to be the very thought of how there was absolutely nothing he could do to help his own self in this awful predicament that kept running from one side of his brain to the next, constantly back and forth, and that in itself was enough, Harry suspected, to make him barking mad pretty soon if nothing changed. His headache seemed to grow more painful with every passing moment, because all of his time was obviously spent doing nothing more than mulling over this specific fact again and again! Harry couldn't help coursing repeatedly through this endless, fruitless process of letting himself frustrate further. There was of course no resolution at all to be taken from any of this, instead only agony, and it was threatening to make his skull explode, too, if it continued to throb on unfalteringly. (Then again, in SOME ways, Harry, depressed as ever, felt death could actually be preferable to his current suffering here, dying with pride rather than living on in defeat.)

Finally, following what felt like an eternity in his isolated suffering, once again footsteps, growing louder, could be heard descending the apparently nearby staircase. Harry immediately lit up, fearful yet excited to see what would happen next, for the opportunity alone to talk to another human being burnt a little candle of hope inside him. His heart thumped harder and harder the closer the footsteps became, tantalizing him all-throughout...

At last, a silhouette which remarkably Harry recognized right away, would have even in light dimmer than this, began forming in his eyesight. It was a person he never anticipated would ever become faint in the memory of his mind, toad-like as ever and succumbing to an increasingly loud laughter as she got closer in that irritating as ever, infamous girlish voice of hers: the small but largely disgusting spectacle of none other than Dolores Umbridge appeared in face of him. Turning to look straight at Harry and smiling pleasantly as she noticed the obvious glimmer of confused shock and anger in his wide, haunted green eyes -- vulnerability in a word, essentially -- Umbridge laughed ten times louder in mockery of him. It was quite apparent (though not at all surprising of course), Dolores Umbridge had absolutely no shame whatsoever in facing Harry now, even after all the horrific things she had done to him and countless others he cared for (things which were often, quite notably, illegal), and as, incredibly, a (presumably) still prominent Ministry employee at that!

Several highly tense-filled moments of complete silence passed in which she stared him up and down condescendingly. Daunting as Harry regretfully felt her presence be, it felt as though Umbridge had immediately gazed right through him and was now amused as she gauged the rising enmity threatening to burst out his chest, distemper him completely. Overcome a slight (to say the least!) by her uniquely vicious staring, it felt like certainly much more than just fifteen contemptuous seconds had passed when Dolores Umbridge at last spoke her first words. "Harry Potter, we meet again at last. It is with my greatest delight, too, no worries! Glimpsing you at your poorest and most pitiful, as the very picture that I'd always envisioned would be your inevitable reflection in end, is most satisfying," she expressed happily, her compassionless voice something beyond rancid.

Unable to stop himself from reacting, Harry was instant to glare at one of the people in the world that he detested the most. Glowering, he finally just hissed through clenched teeth, "YOU! I can't believe you still work for the Ministry after all you've done." They weren't the eloquent, double-taking words he'd hoped for, just the candid things on Harry's disgusted mind. There were of course so many things he wanted to say, mostly ask honestly, but that was something pride alone kept him from doing. Stubborn, Harry absolutely could not let Umbridge's open eyes see right through him straight at all his ugly vulnerabilities, particularly considering all that fear, confusion, rage and despair straining him was proving to destroy him inside-out, surreal, and more and more intense with every gaining moment, too.

Umbridge laughed again, this time more lightheartedly in cool response, fairly relaxed, before making a very pointed statement. "Potter, save your breath for later. You're going to need it when your upcoming trial creeps right up on you, which by the way will be very soon too, considering the Minister is making a top priority of securing a speedy trial date in your near future; you know, given Scrimgeour wants all the mysteries and ill deeds surrounding your actions unveiled to the wizarding world's public eye sooner rather than later." Her voice was practically inhuman in its complex utter apathy and total lack of sympathy (much less remorse!) for Harry despite the grand-scale injustice being carried out against him. Reinforcing her message, with an extra bit of venom offending in her tone Umbridge cruelly added, "You hear me?! That's right, Potter...You're FINISHED."

Although the former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had always been a total nightmare in Harry's mind, in this very second he nevertheless had never felt her presence be more glaring. Looking up at her with unhindered hatred, he felt himself shake worse with fervent anger the longer Umbridge grinned cheerfully upon the degraded sight of him prisoner. Unable to stop in sight of her growing, sickening amusement, feeding to impulse Harry burst out swearing, "Umbridge, you bloody cow! I haven't done anything wrong, I'm innocent, and I've committed NO crime! But I reckon you're pleased as ever to frame me, though! It was probably even all your idea, wasn't it, Umbridge? Only you could trap me right into a barking-mad freak show like this..." Rage slurred Harry's words as tension engulfed every inch of his body.

But Umbridge just uproariously laughed over Harry's reaction. Shaking her head slowly down at him, she condescendingly said in a false sweet tone, "Silly Mr. Potter. Still, I see, we have not yet learned to not tell lies, hmm?" Tongue curled in cheek, Umbridge looked quite flattered with personal amusement as she reminded Harry of their particularly memorable detention sessions in his fifth Hogwarts year.

Harry couldn't help but flinch as the tumultuous memories reeled through his mind, intently looking up at her and not at his visibly tremulous hand which, if ever faintly, still retained the scar from those painful nights ('I must not tell lies'). The impregnable recollection of it immediately cuffed him with fury of the most maddening kind. Teeth clenched, Harry had to consciously open his mouth a little to make sure he was taking actual breaths. He was certain that his anger was animated all over his increasingly reddened face as he spat in retort, "You worthless hag! Mark my words, Umbridge, I'll...I will make you pay for this in the end -- you will!" In his tirade he stupidly hung two clenched fists at his middle, neither obviously of any use to him while still encaged.

Umbridge laughed at his pathetic antics, wholeheartedly once again in that obnoxious girlish voice of hers, but this time more briefly. Then, taking him by full surprise, her furtive eyes left Harry and turned in the direction that she came rather. Though her smile remained steady, her expression became studious, forehead creasing into a remarkably focused stare. But before Harry had even a second to wonder what had so curiously distracted Umbridge, a bone-chilling cold that he knew too well pervaded his every surrounding, sending a freezing shiver up his spine. In a second the disquieting aura of coldness was seriously suffocating him, as all emotional strength had suddenly vanished from within him--

And instantly, Harry of course knew very well what had happened: Umbridge had summoned Dementors. In every way Harry fell disarmed, trembling in almost a convulsion unstoppably as horrible, HORRIBLE memories -- of Voldemort coming back to life and Cedric being murdered, of watching his godfather be forever vanquished past that mysterious veil at the Ministry by his own cousin, that bitch Bellatrix, of Snape getting away after killing a completely blindsided Dumbledore in cold blood -- pulverized him, shocked him with their specially torturous spark. Although Harry could sense himself losing balance, weaken at knees, he could do nothing to stop the pain. Blue from breathlessness, Harry just happened to glimpse forward at the hallway and noticed several large, dark shadows closing in quickly, a uniform of gliding silhouettes that in consequence made the already very limited light dissipate. Finally, as three towering, fully-formed Dementors appeared in the corner of his wincing eye, dispensing ominous mists that reaffirmed their readiness, Harry collapsed onto the floor, falling stomach-first hard. Feeling like every bone in his body had just simultaneously broken, he could hear Umbridge's excited laughter only a moment longer before it rapidly faded out and everything went black.

Alas, in his very last moment of horrified consciousness, Harry Potter, pitiful and defenseless in his current state, knew for sure that he had finally met Death.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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