Invictus

Author's Notes: Thanks go out to everyone who read and/or reviewed Part 1. From now on I'll probably post most author's comments on the review board, as it's easier to edit/update them there, and I don't want to get in the way of the story. I'll also be answering reviews, so do feel free to browse (or post, even!) if you're interested.

Thank you, as always, to Hijja, for fic-pruning, inspiration and gingerbread.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Invictus ~
by Chthonia

Part 2: Loyalty

Complete blackness.

I'd forgotten how dark it is in here.

For a moment I just stand motionless, listening for the sound of breathing. But it sounds like he really has gone.

Oh, thank God for that.

I never thought I'd be so grateful for darkness. Darkness that conceals me as thoroughly as he made me expose myself.

I wrap my arms around my chest, as if that's the only way to hold myself together.

Get a grip, Hermione.

The bath. That's what people do to regain control, isn't it? And oh God there's a reason for that. Besides, I'm shivering with cold – though it would be about typical of that... that creature to provide only cold water to bathe in. I start to feel my way over to the door.

But... what if that's another trap?

I pause with my hand on the doorjamb, shivering, my ears straining. I can't hear anything. Can't smell anything.

Can't see anything, of course. That leaves only one thing to do...

I swallow, and reach my hand into the room.

Nothing happens. My fingers scrabble over the wall until I suddenly realise what I'm groping for. Stupid instinct.

Of course there's not going to be a light switch!

A half-hysterical laugh rises in my throat. I cut it off. The strangled squawk is almost more unnerving than the deathly silence.

Still nothing happens. I can feel myself trembling.

Well, you can't just stand there forever.

I reach further into the room, forcing my feet to follow my hands around the wall. Trying desperately not to think of what could be behind me, above me, beside me...

The bathtub. Cold enamel against my leg, its broad curve matching the brief glimpse he allowed me.

The taps are mounted on the wall, and I grasp one tentatively, then firmly. It's large, with an ornate raised pattern that I can't quite make out. I take a deep breath, and listen carefully – nothing. I turn the tap.

I jump at the loud slap of water against the metal bottom of the bath. And it is hot; I can smell the steam even if I can't see it. I try the other taps – there are even a couple for bubble bath.

Weird. Wizards must really value their plumbing if they furnish even their dungeons like this.

I don't like the thought of getting into a strange bathtub, in the dark. But it sounds normal enough, with the water splashing into the bath and gurgling away down the plughole.

I plunge my hands into the water and feel along the smooth metal bottom of the tub... no hinges, no unexpected holes. I stand up, and then crouch down on the floor. It's one of those old-fashioned bathtubs with feet, like Mum is always saying she wishes would fit in our bathroom at home, only this one's resting on what feels like... coiled iron snakes, I think. I snort inwardly – evidently originality isn't a strong point in old and supposedly noble wizarding families. Not that four years of listening to their stupid insults hadn't already taught me that.

Although... I have a nasty feeling that when it comes to... other things, he can be more original than I want to know about. Pain is beyond the limits of imagining... I shiver.

Don't think about that.

So... there's nothing underneath the tub except the tiled floor, nothing on the opposite wall except a stool and a pile of fluffy towels. No room for my childhood nightmares here. I hope.

If only childhood nightmares were all I had to fear.

I find the plug, run the water deep, and climb in, immersing myself in the liquid warmth as the heat spreads through me and the shivering stops. I scrub myself vigorously, but it's not my body that feels violated.

The way he looked at me... Cleansing my skin can't wash the filth from my mind.

There is no sound except for the movement of the water. No light to see by, but then I don't want to see anything. What I can feel – my skin, my heartbeat – is mine. Everything out there is his. His room. His desk. His bed. His walls.

I will not let him own me. I am Hermione Granger and he is not going to touch that.

I haul myself out of the bath and wrap myself in a towel.

Patterns of pink and green kaleidoscope against the dark. If I were Lavender I'd think I was seeing visions, but I know that it's just my brain reacting to the lack of light. Still, it is rather strange for there to be no difference between having my eyes open or closed. As if there's nothing to see at all. But there is, I know there is. I twist the towel in my hands.

Breathe, breathe deeply.

The darkness feels almost alive, malevolent... but it's only the absence of light. It can't smother me, no matter how dense it feels.

I push away memories of Professor Lupin's lecture on Lethifolds – I don't want to think about what might be lurking in his dungeons, but he hasn't brought me here just for... for that. I'm safe for the time being.

Safe? Hardly the best choice of words, Hermione.

I find the robe he gave me. Threw at me. I don't want to even touch anything he wants me to wear, but I don't want to freeze either. Or go naked. I pull it on. It's made from a soft, comfortable fabric, and it actually fits me. How on earth did he know my size?

And – thankfully – it seems to be covering me in all the right places. For a while there I thought he was just going to give me a pillowcase or something. Or nothing.

I shudder – that doesn't bear thinking about. Has he really had enough of that particular form of torment? What was it he said? I've seen as much of that as I ever want to see.

Unless he's just trying to lull me into a false sense of security.

Relative security.

Though... the way he said it – as if he really couldn't imagine seeing anything more hideous than... than me.

But then why did he look at me like that if he thinks I'm so horribly repulsive?

Well, be thankful he does think that.

I stare into the darkness, frowning. Attempting to work out how his mind works is an exercise that has never remotely appealed to me – but it looks as though I'll have to try if I want any hope of getting out of here alive.

I open the door as quietly as I can, half expecting him to be standing there, waiting. But there's still nothing to see apart from those dancing false neon light patterns. I try to ignore them, and concentrate on listening. But there's nothing to hear. I'm still alone.

And I'm really tired. I don't suppose it can be much later than mid-afternoon, but the darkness is pressing in and right at this moment all I want to do is curl up and blot everything out.

I don't trust that bed, any more than I trusted the bath, but it's a better prospect than sleeping on the hard floor. Anyhow, if I don't sleep I won't be able to think straight, and in this situation I need all the straight thinking I can muster.

The mattress is as comfortable as the robe – a bit disconcerting, really. It would almost be easier to deal with this place if it was furnished like the prison it is.

I lie in the dark, listening to my ears ringing faintly in the absolute silence.

.

I wake in the middle of the night.

I heard a noise. I'm sure I heard a noise. Is there something out there? My skin is crawling with fear. For all I know, he could be standing there in the dark, listening to my panicked breathing. Or maybe there's something else down here.

Like what?

Start with the simplest. What did Professor Lupin say? "Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces..." Well, this would certainly qualify, and Boggarts were never my strong point, even when I had a wand at hand. Though at the moment I wouldn't complain if I saw Professor McGonagall appear in front of me, whatever she was saying.

But there's nothing there.

I'm sure there's nothing there.

When I was little I'd sometimes wake up in the dark like this. I'd lie still, working up the nerve to switch on the light and see the room flip back into cosy normality. But there is no light here – if only I had my wand! But I only have my ears, straining for clues, and the knowledge that he is out there, somewhere. I just have to wait for dawn.

Breathe, Hermione.

I don't know how long I lie there before I remember that there's no dawn here, either.

I'm tense from waiting for nothing to happen. I've been listening for hours – I think – and I think I'm still alone in here. Either way, I can't just stay in this bed until he decides to come back. I need the loo, to start with.

I have to force myself to step out into that blackness. My heart is pounding, but nothing pounces. I trail my hand along the bed as I walk to the bathroom. One small victory over fear.

.

Okay, I have a choice: either I cower in a corner, or I can explore every inch of this room. I need to do something to stop myself from freezing in fear or going mad with boredom – and perhaps I might find something that will give me an advantage, something that will help me hang on until Professor Dumbledore finds me.

And he will find me. Especially if ferret-boy has anything to do with this – for the first time I'm glad of that stupid bully's inability to keep his mouth shut.

I walk across the room, counting paces. My vision and my hearing are still betraying me with ghost signals, so everything comes down to touch. I'd never realised before how the air feels damp within a few centimetres of a cool stone wall, or how my fingers can't quite perceive the shape of an irregular stone slab. Or, for that matter, quite how clearly I can smell the dust in curtain-drapes or old polish on a desk.

I'm hungry.

Don't think about that.

In the bathroom I find a toothbrush, and a jar of that gritty minty ointment that wizards use for toothpaste. I brush my teeth. It's comfortingly familiar, as if I could open my eyes and find myself standing in the bathroom at home.

I wish.

Tears well up in my eyes – but I wipe them away. Feeling sorry for myself isn't going to get me anywhere.

I practice walking straight back to the bed, without feeling my way along the walls. I almost manage it without bumping into the desk, and I feel a small rush of triumph. Another small defeat over the darkness surrounding me.

.

I wake up slowly, dimly aware of the morning light. I stretch drowsily, wondering vaguely where Crookshanks is.

God, what a horrible dream. I dread to think what Trelawney would make of that one.

I open my eyes and plunge back into nightmare. I'm staring up at grey eyes, pale face, cold smile. He's standing right by the bed, looking down at me.

Instantly awake, I roll out of his reach and crouch with my back against the wall. We stare at each other across the rumpled blankets.

He's not wearing his cloak this time, and his robes are plainer, but the gloves are the same. As is the sneer. Had I really forgotten just how horrid that thin angular face is?

No, I've just avoided thinking about it. But I can't avoid it now. And I have to make a choice – to resist, or pretend to acquiesce. If I can get him to underestimate me he might just slip up. It's a faint hope, but I've come through some tight situations before...

He raises his eyebrows. "Aren't you happy to see me? I thought you'd be glad of some company after being here alone all this time."

All what time? It can't be more than a day, two days, can it? I don't even know what time of day it is. Suddenly I need to know.

I look at him warily. His expression seems more evaluative, less hate-filled, than before. Perhaps I can risk the question.

"How long have I been here?" I ask.

His lip curls. "Didn't you learn anything from our last little session? You're here to answer questions, not to ask them."

Well, it was worth a try. Maybe. Though his eyes are colder now and his wand is back in his hand.

"And as for time," he continues, "all you need concern yourself with is making sure you're awake and attentive whenever I'm here. Is that quite clear?"

"Yes." I hate giving in to his arrogance, but his time I feel no self-betrayal. This time the response is my choice, part of my strategy, not something he is wringing out of me.

"So why are you still in bed?"

I push down my anger as I crawl across the mattress. He doesn't move out of the way. No, he just stands there smugly, watching me. I hate the way he's ordering me about, but he'll only take more pleasure in hurting me if I don't do what he says.

He might do that anyway, of course, but I'm not going to give him the excuse.

I swing my feet onto the floor at the end of the bed, as far away from him as I can get. He's still sneering at me, but he's still... watching me, too. I've no idea what he wants. Or maybe he just wants to make me worry about it. Him and his stupid Slytherin games – being alone in the dark was far preferable. I look away.

He steps forward and grasps my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"Don't think that you can ignore me, Mudblood."

I can't suppress a shiver of fear at his tone, his proximity, his touch. He smiles.

"Well, you seem to be settling in satisfactorily. Now make the bed and come over here."

He walks across the room, and a minute later I follow. All that time spent orienting myself in the dark seems pointless now that I can see him, and the desk, and the odd crazy-paving walls. This is a completely different place in the light.

Another chair has appeared and I sit on it warily, facing him across the desk.

He watches me silently, lazily fingering his wand. My eyes are drawn to it, inexorably. I can't stop myself hoping that an extra split second of warning will help me when he decides to use it.

He moves his hand slowly into casting position. I look up at his face. He raises an eyebrow.

"Scared, Mudblood?"

I don't reply. I'm not stupid enough to not be scared, and he knows it.

"Tell me," he says, wand poised, "if you'd known when you received your Hogwarts letter that you would end up here, would you still have accepted?"

I don't know what he wants me to say to that. Perhaps I should let him think he's won, but that lie sticks in my throat. I am a witch, whatever he may think about it. I watch him warily as I answer.

"Yes."

His eyes darken for a moment, and then he chuckles.

"So am I to take it that you don't find my company so offensive after all? I'm touched."

I look down at the desk. Of course, he would twist that into something vile. I can't help recalling his earlier comments, and that feeling of utter exposure. I feel myself blush.

But that's how he wants me to react. And I don't want to give him that satisfaction. I look up.

He flicks his wand.

I flinch – but the only assault is from the sudden aroma of food. A tray has appeared on the table: a bowl of thick soup, a couple of slices of bread, and a glass of water. Not much, but that soup smells delicious. My stomach twists with hunger.

"It's probably not what you're accustomed to eating for breakfast," he comments, "but I'm not going to have my kitchen rearranged just because you insist on sleeping at odd hours of the day."

I ignore my prickle of resentment, and focus on the food. Common sense tells me I shouldn't touch it with a barge-pole. Common sense also tells me that I have to eat to keep my strength up. I sniff carefully. There's no telltale scent of potion, although that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

"Eat up," he says. "I don't want you to starve."

"You'd rather poison me instead?"

He laughs scornfully. "You don't really expect me to answer that, do you? And I thought they said you were intelligent."

And I'd have no reason to believe him anyway, if he told me the food was okay.

I take a spoonful of soup, savouring the taste. There's nothing wrong with it as far as I can tell, and I don't exactly have a lot of choice if I want to eat something. So I continue, chewing slowly. I wish he wasn't watching every mouthful I take so closely.

As if there's nothing else to wish for! I wish I wasn't here at all. I wish I'd never set eyes on him.

"Now, the interesting question," he drawls, "is whether you would still be eating that with such obvious relish if you knew that I had put something in it."

I stop with the spoon halfway to my mouth. There's a malicious glint in his eyes.

Logic, Hermione.

Whether he says he has or he hasn't, two facts remain: I can't trust him, and I have to eat something. And there isn't exactly a lot of choice when it comes to food. He's just playing mindgames. Isn't he?

I force myself to swallow the soup. If it turns out that there is something wrong with it then I'll have to deal with that as best I can.

He continues to watch me. I continue to ignore him.

When I've finished, he flicks his wand again. In place of the dishes is a plain, empty goblet.

It sits on the desk between us.

He brings out a flask from his pocket, holds it up, and pours out a dark green liquid in an elegant arc.

"Now, since you've already asked me about poisons, let's make potions the focus of our lesson today, hmm?"

That cold hand of fear clenches round me again. The way he's swirling that flask makes Professor Snape look like someone's fairy godmother.

He smiles. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you know about Veritaserum?"

The fear squeezes tighter. I'd rather face what he put me through last time than put the Order in danger. Knowing this had to be coming doesn't make it any easier to face, especially as I don't know how I'm going to resist answering his questions. But I have to, somehow. Too much is at stake.

"I know everything I need to know about what it is and what it does," I say coldly. I will not take part in his sick little game.

His eyes narrow. "You do? Very well then, let me ask you something more specific. Can you tell me what it doesn't do?"

I don't know what he's getting at. Veritaserum is the most powerful Truth Potion in existence.

"No? Not quite the fount of all knowledge after all, are you?"

I suppress my irritation at the put-down. Why does he need to pick at every little thing I don't know? I've never claimed to know everything, and what I do know is down to my own hard work.

He leans towards me again.

"So let me tell you: it doesn't allow you a choice, Mudblood. As my old friend Severus says, three drops and you're spilling your innermost secrets for the entire world to hear. No finesse at all – I can't understand why so many people insist on using it."

He gestures towards the goblet. "So for the purposes of today's discussion, we're going to try something else. Probitaserum, to be precise."

Probitaserum? What's he up to? It barely qualifies as a Truth Potion; we even made it in class once. I might have a chance against that.

"Of course," he continues, "those of limited intelligence might believe that Probitaserum is less efficacious, but they entirely miss the point. Under Veritaserum, the answers to unasked questions go completely hidden... and, as you know so well, the questions one doesn't know to ask so often turn out to be the most revealing."

As I know so well... I don't want to think about what happened in the bookshop – this time I have to do better than that. I watch him cautiously as he continues.

"Probitaserum may give you more freedom to choose your reply, but it makes it far more obvious when you're hiding something." He grins. "Not to mention that it's a lot more amusing to watch."

He pushes the goblet towards me. "So drink up, Mudblood," he says, "and I'll show you exactly what I'm talking about."

I look down at the dark liquid. I know what it does, and I've resisted it before, more or less. I might be able to do that again, depending on how strong this is. If I drink it I'm gambling that I can hide what I need to hide – and if I can't manage it I'll have handed him everything on a plate. I can't do that. But I don't want to think about what he'll do to me if I refuse.

He's watching me, with a curious smile.

No. I will not willingly walk into this trap. I meet his eyes, and lift the goblet. Then I throw it to the floor.

He raises his eyebrows but says nothing. The empty goblet rolls noisily away across the flagstones. And stops.

"So, once again you indulge your rebellious streak," he says. "I assume you haven't forgotten what I said about that the last time?"

No, I haven't forgotten his threat. But whatever he's going to do now can't be worse than acquiescing in betrayal.

"Don't even imagine that I'm going to let you off with Imperius," he says. "I've already told you I don't like using it on Mudbloods, and after I had to go to such trouble to make you pay attention before, this time I'd rather you stay aware of everything you do."

He leans back and smiles. It sends a chill down my spine, but I try to hide that. I made my choice and I'll face whatever he throws at me.

"You know," he says lazily, "that twisted Gryffindor reasoning never ceases to fascinate me."

I won't sit and listen to him lecture me. He's going to do his worst anyway.

"Perhaps Slytherins are encouraged to rat on their friends," I retort, "but I doubt anyone else would have a problem understanding loyalty."

His eyes narrow. "A Slytherin would have been astute enough to avoid getting into your particular situation. But if she did, I would expect her to apply a little more logic to the matter of loyalty than you seem able to."

If he wants to throw insults rather than curses, I'm not going to complain. And if I can keep him talking... I'm trying to stall the inevitable, of course, but perhaps he'll say something that could help me.

"It's not a question of logic, it's a question of honour."

He laughs. "You're confusing honour with lack of guilt. You'll tell me everything I want to know anyway. Does it really matter whether or not you try to resist?"

"Of course it does!"

"Does it? On a purely practical level, all it means is that you'll be in a worse state afterwards. Take guilt out of the equation, and surely it's obvious that loyalty lies in making sure you'd actually in be a fit state to be able to help your friends – or yourself – if the opportunity arose. Though as it won't in your case, I admit that the point is rather academic."

That's a twisted argument. I won't accept it, and I won't accept that I'm stuck here.

"You're assuming that there's no hope from the start."

"Yes, I am. And in that I believe I have considerably more experience than you."

I- I don't know what to say.

His lip curls contemptuously. "Everyone prattles on about Gryffindor bravery, but none of you has the nerve to really face up to situations in which your so-called principles can't give you a clear answer. You people have no understanding of what it takes to actually make such a decision, so you accuse those of us who do of disloyalty, while you run from guilt and call your cowardice honour."

He stands up and leans towards me. "So now you are clinging to the notion that your little display of rebellion makes you somehow less accountable for what you're going to tell me anyway. But if you need me to hurt you so that you can live with yourself afterwards, so be it." He smirks. "I was rather hoping you'd be in the mood for another lesson."

He walks around the desk.

I stand to face him. I am a Gryffindor and I will not run from my fate.

"So eager to get started," he mocks. He glances around the room. "Over there, I think." He points to the wall between the desk and the door.

I glance over my shoulder to the bare stonework, then turn back to face him. He's as rigid and implacable as stone himself, and I feel as if I, too, have turned into a pillar of rock. I can't turn my back on him. And I won't make it easier for him to- to...

"Perhaps you didn't understand me, Mudblood." His words come out in a low, menacing hiss. "What I meant was, get over there. Now."

And there's something about the angle of his chin, about the way his lip twitches and his eyes seem somehow darker than they did before, that tells me that he will make it so much worse if I don't obey that order. That he has the power to throw me viciously against the wall anyway, as he demonstrated so clearly before. And I don't want to give him an excuse to do it. I have to keep my dignity as long as I can. I have to make it clear to him that I'm a person.

So I walk towards the wall, straight-backed, fighting my rising dread every step of the way. I'm about five paces away when his spell hits me, propelling me forward so that I stumble against the wall with arms outstretched and am held there unable to move.

The cool stone is rough against my right cheek. I can't move my head; all I can see is a short stretch of wall to the empty corner of the room. All I can hear is the thump of my pulse, and the click of his boots on the stone. And a metallic scrape that fills me with fear until I realise it's just the goblet he's picking up. I think.

His footsteps come towards me. I still can't see him. Closer... and he stops. I strain my ears for the sound of movement. He could be right behind me, he could be several feet away. Or he could have left the room. I wish I could tell.

But I can't. And I know what he wants, as he stands there – wherever – in silence. He wants me to turn my fear in on myself. I've read all about how that works: how the two natural responses to fear are flight or fight, and how when neither is possible the fear is driven inwards, to break down the resistance of the mind so that defences are weakened even before they are called on.

And I know how to fight it; every word etched on my memory by my determination never again to feel that overwhelming paralysis when faced with a troll, or a Boggart, or a Death Eater and his sneering son. Focus. Whatever is going to happen hasn't happened yet, and feeling sick with terror isn't going to stop it happening.

Still no sound. Maybe he really has gone. Maybe he's just going to leave me here.

Maybe Professor Snape is going to take to wearing a pink robe and handing out chocolates in class.

I almost laugh. Too hysterical. My mind trying to shut out everything else as well as the fear. But humour is good. Anger is good. Hate is good, if I have to choose between that and fear. I can't stop myself being afraid, that's too much to ask, but I can focus on my anger, my hatred of him and all he represents. Something that lets me take back some control over my reactions.

But I jump as something touches my neck. I try to jerk away – but I can't move, of course.

His wand, sliding forward until its tip touches the left side of my jaw. What's he doing?

Trying to scare me, that's what. I can't feel any signs of a spell. Remember anger.

He moves the wand up towards my ear, slowly, holding it level and never losing contact with my neck. I shiver. What is he doing?

He tilts it up and back, drawing my hair away from my cheek. My peripheral vision is clear now, but I still can't see him.

We stand there like that for a full minute.

I'm literally shaking with tension. Fear. Anger. Hate. My body's reflex reaction that I can't stop, however hard I try to keep myself motionless.

"So." Soft, sibilant whisper, just behind my ear. "Are you starting to regret your foolish act of bravado?"

I wish I could turn and face him. I hate him. Remember that. I will not meekly do as he demands, and I stand by that decision.

"No." It comes out defiantly, despite a slight waver.

A quiet laugh.

He waits a few seconds, then lets my hair fall back across my face. He walks slowly round to face me. His eyes are devoid of expression.

Why can I still feel his wand lying against my neck?

"Bravely said, Mudblood," he says softly. "But that does rather seem to indicate that you have forgotten your last lesson after all."

He passes his wand above my outstretched left arm, from wrist to shoulder. That part of my arm comes free from the wall. I twist slightly to face him.

Carefully, he rolls up my sleeve, flicking his eyes up to meet mine with every turn of the fabric. He fastidiously keeps his fingers a few centimetres away from my arm, avoiding contact. Halfway between my elbow and my shoulder he stops. He steps back.

"Let's start with a recap, shall we?" He trails his wand along my forearm.

For a moment, there's nothing. And then it feels as if a line of acid is slowly etching into my arm. I bite my lip against the pain. It's getting worse. The bastard was right: I had forgotten. Did I really think I could resist this?

But I have to try. It's only pain – I can see there's no real injury.

Only pain? Only pain that is screaming along my nerves demanding that I move, that I run to the sink or the bath and hold my arm under cold clean flowing water, but I can't pull away from the wall. He's watching me shake with the effort not to scream out and I hate him and I'm not sure how much more I can take.

Logic, Hermione.

It's a false signal. A direct manipulation of my nervous system.

But knowing that doesn't stop the overwhelming agony...

He passes his wand over my arm, and it goes numb. I gasp with relief.

"I don't suppose you'd care to reconsider your reluctance to co-operate?"

Yes. No. Anything to stop him doing that again. But how can I just agree to tell him everything? Though, though, if I could resist the effects of that potion...

"As I was saying, the decision-making ability of Gryffindors is sadly deficient. Perhaps I can help you to make up your mind."

I open my mouth but I still can't find the right words.

He shakes his head. "Too late, Mudblood. And besides, there's something I wanted to show you."

I can't bear to look at that smug, mocking face. I close my eyes.

"So you don't want to watch? Very well. Oculos claudo."

I can't open my eyes. I fight back my panic. He's right in front of me doing God knows what and I can't even see to prepare myself.

Breathe.

Breathe deeply.

I feel that treacherously light touch of his wand on my arm.

An identical line of burning, gouging pain, precisely parallel to the first. But this time I can't see the incongruity of unblemished skin set against grating agony. This is a battle entirely within myself. I bite down on my lip.

Illusion.

It doesn't feel like illusion.

But it didn't feel like illusion when I could see that it was, either.

Breathe. It's not real.

Of course it's real! Even if there's no lasting damage it hurts it hurts it HURTS

Could this overload permanently damage my nervous system? Cold fear at the thought. Can I risk it? Do I have a choice anyway? I won't give in to him. Not when there are consequences beyond this moment. I slam my shoulder into the wall. The few centimetres of movement I have give me nowhere near enough pain to deflect my attention from that agony.

"You can stop this any time you like," he says quietly. "You just have to say the word. Such a small thing compared to this suffering you're putting yourself through."

I open my mouth and I scream, dredging up all that searing agony and flinging it out into the room. Blotting out his voice. Anything, anything to draw my attention away from the fire in my arm.

"Silencio!"

It cuts me off. I'm forcing the air out but the sound and the pain are blocked inside. I can hardly breathe. I'm shaking. Silently. The screaming is loud in my mind.

"That wasn't really what I had in mind, Mudblood."

I can hardly hear what he's saying. I can't hold this. I can't let it out.

"Have you had enough yet?"

Enough? 'Enough' makes no sense. I just want it to stop. But it's getting worse. I didn't think it could get any worse.

I can't nod, I can't speak, I can't even look at him. Doesn't he realise that? It's just me in my own private black hole with the thing that's burning through me. I can't take this. Anything to make it stop. Stop. Please stop. Stop.

The litany is running through my head but I'm mouthing the word. Stop.

"I can't quite hear you. Are you ready to co-operate yet?"

No. I just want it to stop. "Please stop..." My voice is back. Though it doesn't sound like mine. Strained past endurance.

"That's not what I asked."

I hate him. I shriek out my response. "Yes! Just make it stop!"

It does. Though I'm still shaking and there's a dull throb along my arm.

"So now that you're slightly more comfortable, perhaps you'd like to answer me properly. I'd like a more considered response, before we wind this up."

Don't think about it. Just say yes. I know I can't hold out.

"Still not sure?" I can hear the mocking smile in his voice. "Shall I show you something worse?"

Worse than that?

He touches his wand to my eyelids.

I blink. And stifle a scream. My arm.

There's an ugly red gouge running along my forearm, weeping with pus. I stare at it in horror. About the width of a wand, and half as deep. Not as deep as it felt, but too deep. No wonder I'm shaking so much. It's not only nerve damage I had to worry about.

I feel sick. Cold. What has he done? What else will he do?

He's just smiling his self-satisfied smile. Utterly in control. Inhuman. Horrible.

"Am I to take it that you might have chosen to stop a little sooner, if I'd let you watch?"

Vile.

How could I not have given in sooner, knowing that my flesh was being eaten away?

But did I really think I was going to get out of here unscathed?

Oh God...

"Because," he says, "if you really dislike the idea of the potion, we could do this the old-fashioned way." He presses his wand against the reddened skin beside the wound. I bite back a cry. He smirks. "It's not the most reliable of methods, of course, but there are other compensations..." He presses harder. Pain shoots up my arm. I will not cry out. But I want to be sick.

Why do my words stick in my throat? He was right, earlier. What's the point of trying to endure something that I know I can't take anyway? But then why is it so hard to admit defeat?

He moves behind me and speaks, drawing the word out slowly. "Caedo."

I gasp as the spell pierces my thigh. Is that real, or illusion? I can feel a trickle of blood running down my leg. Could that be illusion? Does it matter? This is crazy, especially when he could just cast Imperius and make me do what he wants anyway. When he tires of demonstrating all the ways he can make me scream – and I really don't want to find out what he would do before getting to that stage. Didn't I say that I wasn't going to give him an excuse to torment me?

Just say it.

"No. Don't."

That quiet laugh again. "Are you sure? But I'm still waiting for that considered response I asked for."

But that's just it. If he just wanted information he would have used Imperius, and Veritaserum. It's my considered betrayal he wants. Betrayal of my friends and all my principles. Betrayal of the Light.

"Caedo."

I scream my defiance. And the pain. More blood running down my other leg. I'm dizzy from the agony lancing through my limbs; I'm not sure I could stay upright if I wasn't held here.

"Pain or potion, Mudblood," he murmurs. "It's up to you."

He touches the first cut he made on my leg.

"Sano."

A sudden warmth, and the pain there is miraculously gone.

"You see?" he says. "Don't delude yourself that I have any intention of letting you die before you give me what I want. We can keep this up for as long as you like."

He heals the other cut and walks around to face me again. I wish I could turn those vicious spells of his against that horrid smirking face! But I can't even move.

"You stubborn little fool," he snarls. "I've had grown wizards weeping at my feet, begging me for death in return for telling me anything I want to know. Do you really think you're so superior you can resist forever?"

Of course I can't. It's too much to ask.

Hermione Granger – admitting failure?

No one could endure this. No one.

But you could endure a little longer, couldn't you?

For what?

"All right. I'll drink your potion." A last shiver of resistance, but also an unexpected sense of relief at finally admitting that I have no choice. And I still have a chance against the potion. There are some things he won't know to ask about.

He nods peremptorily. "Not the most gracious response, but we can work on that."

I wince as he touches his wand to the wound on my arm. And lifts it away.

"That one, I think I'll leave. It's actually rather an awkward one to heal. And perhaps it might remind you to be a little more sensible in future."

He waves his wand and suddenly I am free of the wall. I grasp at the stone for support and turn to face the room. Pain shoots through my left arm as I lift it, but at least I can lift it. Thank God. I cradle it with my other arm and stumble back to the chair.

So again we're facing each other across the desk. And again he's carefully pouring out the potion and pushing the goblet towards me. But this time I'm going to drink it.

I almost wish he had put me under Imperius. At least Imperius can be thrown off, theoretically – but I can't escape my own weakness. If I were a Slytherin, perhaps I could fool myself that I was making a tactical move as part of a larger strategy, but as it is I know I'm just trying to save my own skin. For a little longer.

I offer silent apologies to my friends. But apologies are meaningless.

Actions aren't. I will resist. I focus my thoughts on the Light.

And I drink.