Invictus

Chthonia

Story Summary:
Lucius abducts Hermione. Slytherin versus Gryffindor - Pureblood versus Muggleborn - the old order versus the new. Two opposites, one room, no way out... no holds barred.

Chapter 05 - Truth

Chapter Summary:
Lucius abducts Hermione.
Posted:
02/10/2004
Hits:
3,977
Author's Note:
Thanks to

Additional Disclaimer: The simplified rune interpretations are synthesised from various sources (including canon) for effect rather than accuracy.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Hijja for checking spells and spellings and for not complaining about my forgetfulness regarding the latter. And thank-you as well to everyone following this story, especially those of you who have shared your thoughts via the review boards.

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

~ Invictus ~
by Chthonia

Part 5: Truth

There's no light when I wake up. No sign of him. Thankfully.

I sit up stiffly and unwrap the towel from my ankle. I prod my foot carefully. The swelling doesn't seem to be any worse, though I still don't want to put too much weight on it. But the scratches on my leg are hot and sore and still weeping slightly. I need to get to the sink and wash them again.

I swing my feet onto the floor. And jerk them back with a stifled scream.

There's something slimy down there!

What is it? Is it something he left? Is it going to crawl up on the bed?

I hold my breath. I can't hear anything...

Moving as silently as I can, I reach for one of the pieces of curtain rail.

Whatever that thing is, it hasn't moved.

I hold myself still, trying to hold back the panic. I'm trapped here! With this ankle, I can't even run.

But at least you have the stick. You'll be able to defend yourself.

I almost believe that.

Maybe you could get round it while it's still asleep. You could lock yourself in the bathroom.

But if I tread on it...

But you can't just sit there waiting for it to wake up!

I swallow. And before I can think about it too much I tap the floor to my right.

Stone. Thank God for that. Maybe I can walk round it, then. So how big is it?

Tap.

Stone. I reach to my left.

Tap.

Stone. Forward, as far as I can stretch.

Tap.

Stone. So it must be quite small, then. Holding my breath, I try the area just in front of me.

Thud.

That's it.

Silence.

It doesn't seem to be attacking me.

So I could just walk round it.

No! You've got to find out what it is! You'll only be more scared if you don't.

I suppose that's true. But that would mean touching it.

I sit there, twisting the stick in my hands.

So get down and have a closer look!

I guess I have to.

Here goes, then...

I ease myself onto the floor near the head of the bed, and move towards the... thing. I sniff carefully. Nothing. Nothing sweet, nothing putrid – it's unlikely to be poisonous, then.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

Oh, come on. As if he's going to poison you when he still hasn't got what he wants.

I suppose. That's pretty much what he said, after all.

Perhaps it would be better if it were poisonous. But no. This is just another of his stupid games.

I hate the way he plays with me like this.

I don't want to touch that thing. But what choice do I have? I can't let him win this easily.

I reach out gingerly.

Euck! I snatch my hand back.

Whatever-it-is is clammy and cold. But touching it didn't hurt.

And it's still not attacking me.

So have a proper look at it!

I move forward again.

It's the towel I dropped. Only a towel.

For God's sake, Hermione, what are you doing, scaring yourself like that? It's not as if there isn't enough to be afraid of already!

I wrap my arms around my knees, shuddering.

Okay, time to get a grip. Better wash that leg and finish off the soup, before... before he...

I crawl to the bathroom with the towels and fling them into the bath.

Stupid to be scared of a stupid towel!

I lean over to retrieve the dry one, wet one half of it and hold it against my scratched and swollen leg. The coolness is a blessed relief.

But I'm hungry. I check there's no fresh bleeding, and crawl back to the desk.

The soup is cold, of course, but still filling. Two bowls of soup shouldn't be enough, really, given how long it must be since I had a proper meal, but... either there's something weird going on with time down here, or there's some sort of nourishing potion in the soup.

Whatever.

There's still some bread left. I hide it in the bedclothes – I don't want him to take it away when he comes back.

The dusty curtains are still piled on the bed. I heave them onto the floor.

But he'll go mad if he sees them there.

Like you care what he thinks?

Of course I care what he thinks! I can't afford not to!

And besides, it's something to do, isn't it?

I manage to fold the curtains by spreading them out on the floor and dragging the edges together. It takes a while – they're rather heavy, and it would be so much easier if I could stand properly. But, as I said, it's something to do. I suppose I'd better go rinse out that soup bowl while I'm at it. And the goblet. No point in giving him the opportunity to make another barbed remark about Muggle hygiene.

Bastard.

So now what? I sit on the floor with my back against the wall. I don't want to just lie in bed, and sitting on the chair at the desk reminds me of, of him. And I don't want to think about him. I hate him!

I wonder what they're learning at Hogwarts today? Assuming it is a schoolday, that is. How are the DA getting on? I hope Harry's teaching everyone to be really careful about not touching things...

No point in dwelling on that.

So I run through some Transfiguration theory. It's better to keep my mind occupied with something constructive, and I don't want to have forgotten everything if I do get out of here – when I get out of here. I do have OWLs to take this year, after all.

But I can't seem to relate to that thought.

How can I not care about OWLs? My whole future depends on them!

I try again: I've missed so many lessons! I'm going to be so far behind!

That should trigger a wave of utter panic – that old nightmare brought to life, the one where I walk into the Great Hall completely unprepared for my exams.

But it doesn't.

That doesn't mean I don't care. Of course I care. It's just that...

Whatever.

I'm getting hungry again, so I climb up onto the bed and nibble on the bread. I'm feeling quite drowsy, actually. Might as well doze a little. It's not as if there's anything else to do.

.

Something moves at the edge of vision. A pale figure, blurring into shadow...

I sit up, rubbing my eyes.

It's still dark, still silent. He's not here.

But... I'm sure he was here. Didn't I just see him?

You must have been dreaming, Hermione.

Dreaming? What would I dream about him for? It's bad enough having to deal with him while I'm awake!

Though it looks as if I don't have to deal with him right at the moment, thank goodness.

I wonder where he is?

Not here. That's a good thing. I dread to think of what he's going to do when he comes back.

I'm thirsty. I try to stand up but my ankle still hurts.

Hmm, I wonder...

Could I use the broken curtain rail for support? I think one of the pieces is about the right length.

I put the splintered end on the floor and prepare to stand. But then I turn it the other way up. If I blunt the splinters he'll know what I've been up to, and I don't want him to know what I've been up to. Not that it really matters, I suppose, but somehow it feels important to hold onto that much privacy. And besides, blunting it might make it harder to mend, and after what happened... all I can do is hang on until someone rescues me. I can't afford to provoke him further.

Not until I get the hell out of here, that is. Then he'll see how provocative I can be. If the old pureblood families think they can treat us like this, it's high time that we Muggleborns got together and started standing up for ourselves!

But for now, I just need some water.

I gulp it down, and check the scratches on my leg – the swelling has gone down a bit, I think. I hope. I return to the bed and tear off more of the bread. Not quite enough to be filling, but I suppose I should ration myself. I don't know how long he's going to be gone, after all.

I wonder what he's up to?

Well, I doubt he's going to tell me, not without distorting the truth. Anything could be happening up there.

I hope my friends are all right. I hope someone's looking after Crookshanks.

I guess this is how Harry felt last summer. But at least he was safe.

Relatively safe.

Better think about something else. Potion formulae, perhaps...

But that's too much like cooking, and I don't want to think about food. I could try Arithmancy – hard to get much drier than that...

Doesn't stop me from feeling hungry, though. I hold out for a while, but finally I break off more of the bread. There isn't that much left now. I wonder when he's going to come back?

Not that I want him to come back.

But if he doesn't?

No such luck, Hermione. He was away for ages the first time, remember?

Not for this long. It was a day and a half, I think. And it's been two days now.

You don't know how long it's been. God knows what's happened to your body clock down here.

True, true... but in that case it could equally well be longer than two days. But it's not as if I can do much about it. All I can do is wait, and revise my lessons, and hobble round the room trying not to cut myself on this stick. Trying to occupy myself so I don't feel so bored.

And sleep, of course. There's always sleep...

.

...I'm walking along a corridor... wooden floors, low ceiling, long row of panelled doors, portraits watching from either side. It must be high up in Hogwarts castle, sixth or seventh floor at least... but I don't recognise the place. It's been a long time since I've been lost in the school... and prefects are allowed to go anywhere, aren't they, so why can't I open the doors? A white-haired witch with a thin face laughs at me from a picture... I can see the Quidditch pitch from a window, but it's a long way away, and I didn't come here for Quidditch, somewhere up here there's a library and I need to find it... and there's carpet under my feet now, deep red rug running into the distance... and a heavy wooden chair in an alcove. There's a ghost in the chair, watching me come towards, towards... her. And she tells me I shouldn't be here and I know I shouldn't be here but everyone tells me I 'shouldn't be here' and they're just keeping things for themselves, aren't they? And she smiles and it's, it's the Ravenclaw ghost and she nods and says yes dear even I never dared to open these doors... and I don't want to be stuck here like her waiting for them to let me in... so I walk on past portrait after portrait and a dark-haired man with Sirius' eyes frowns and tells me you shouldn't be here and I'm fed up of hearing it... but his head falls off and the blood runs out of the painting and drips off the frame and I run, I push on through a wall of air, and he calls after me see what you have to do to belong... and – there's the door! with carvings of badgers and lions and snakes that crawl over each other, and a round grille, I can see the shelves of books through the grille, and I reach out to push but the animals snap at me... and the raven at the top croaks what will you give and the snake opens it's mouth wider and wider until it's the height of the door but there's nothing beyond except those long, long teeth and darkness and a hard cold laugh

You're dreaming, Hermione! Wake up!

I'm covered in sweat.

I touch the wall: rough stone. It's pitch dark but there's no carpeted corridor, no books, no snake – carved, Petrified or Slytherin.

I reach wildly for the stick and hobble across to the bathroom. I splash water on my face, and have a drink. I'm still shivering. Sod it – I'm going to have a bath.

My leg smarts a little as I lower myself into the water. It warms me up, but I wish I could see something.

But the only way that's going to happen is if he comes back and casts Lumos.

Where the hell is he, anyhow?

Maybe he's just going to leave me here. Maybe that's his revenge.

But I don't really believe that. I'm sure the bastard would rather watch me suffer. And I very much doubt he's finished with his interrogation. He'll be back.

And I'd rather he didn't find me in the bath when he does. I climb out and rub myself down with a towel.

I wish Crookshanks were here, rubbing round my ankles like he did sometimes. Just to touch another living creature...

Better to wish you were with Crookshanks.

Yeah. But I'm not.

I hunt around for the bread. I don't want to finish it, so I leave a tiny bit. I'm still hungry. And a little light-headed.

Best not to focus on that.

I lie down and trace runes in my mind, running through the first Aett and then the second... Hagalaz for destruction and transformation, Nauthiz for need overcoming limitations, Isa for icy control, Jera for harvesting what is sown, Eihwaz for partnership...

No, you idiot, partnership is Ehwaz! How are you going to pass your OWL if you can't even get those two straight!

My head's just too fuzzy for Ancient Runes, I guess.

I'll try something less abstract, then. Like Charms. I think through how it feels to have a wand in my hand, to flick it just so and make a book rise into the air.

I did that once without a wand. When I was seven and my Mum wouldn't get her Encyclopaedia down from the high shelf in the living room.

I wonder...

Didn't I read in Achievements in Charming that it's possible to control what we all did as children? To focus magic through the mind instead of a wand?

I sit up. It's not something I've tried – we aren't allowed to at home, of course, and they don't exactly encourage it at school, either – Professor Flitwick always said that it was too easy to blow things up without a wand to direct the magic, and anyway, I was more interested in mastering the more advanced charms. But, from what I read, it is possible to do it with simple spells – though you need a much stronger focus without the wand to channel the power.

So try a simple spell, then. Anything's better than sitting staring at the dark.

I envisage the motion, and, "Lumos!"

Nothing, except for an odd tingling along my arm and up my spine.

Perhaps, without a wand... perhaps it's not so much the motion, but the feeling behind the motion?

I try again: "Lumos!"

There's an infinitesimal flare of light. It worked!

And I'm definitely in the same room. No carpet. No portraits. No ghosts.

Okay. Now to try holding it for a bit longer. Maybe I have a chance after all.

"Lumos!"

...and I can see round the whole room, using nothing but my own power! YES!

But it's tiring. The light is wavering and my head hurts. I let it go.

I'm going to have a thumping headache.

But it worked!

I'm shivering. I feel utterly drained. I gulp down the last bit of bread and crawl underneath the blankets...

...and I'm walking along the corridor again, where this time the carpet covers the whole width of the floor and is soooo deep that it feels like walking through treacle... but I go on past the portrait of the white-haired witch who looks down her nose at me and the chair which is empty now... so I stop to rest and I'm looking at a painting of a woman in a chair and it's me and I look back at me and tell me I can go home from here! but the passage behind me is the same as the one in front, or it goes to the same place, anyway... so I go on past the wizard whose head floats out of his picture and laughs and I struggle past because I know there's a way out up here... I see the door but this time it's smooth black with no carved animals and no grille and no way through just my reflection staring back at me...and beside the door is a painting that I didn't see before of a too-familiar wizard with white-blond hair and grey eyes and faint smile that tells me that he could show me the way through if I want to get out and I back away but I can't break his gaze and he just smiles and asks isn't this what you came for and reaches out and seizes my wrist and pulls me in...

I wake up.

Get out of my head, you bastard!

I can still see the image against the darkness in the room. It's smiling sardonically.

"Get out!" I shout into the darkness. I cover my ears and I close my eyes and I scream. Anything to block that out. I need to wake up! And it's not as if anyone can hear me here.

How do you know? I'm sure he'd find it very amusing to hear you talking to yourself.

I grit my teeth in frustration and leap out of bed.

Ow! My ankle!

I fall back across the blankets and reach for the stick. But at least the pain cleared my head. Now, where's that bread?

Oh... I finished it.

Well, I can have a drink of water at least.

If he doesn't come back soon...

My head spins as I stand up. I lean on the stick and make my way to the bathroom. I feel like an itinerant wizard, holding my staff, ready for a long journey.

Wizards don't have staffs. They have wands. And the only long journey I could make would consist of several hundred circuits of this room.

Whatever.

Nothing to do except wait. At this rate I'll be mad with boredom by the time he gets back.

If he comes back.

I sit at the desk. And yes, it does remind me of him. The real him, not that insidious dream-him.

Bastard.

Look, you can't worry about that dream. Dreams never make sense anyway.

I suppose. And it's not all that surprising that he crept in – he is the only human being I've seen for the last... however many days.

Human being is not exactly how I'd put it.

Yeah, well, unfortunately he does a good enough impression to fool everyone else.

And, come to think about it, he does look a bit like some of the historical figures in those old portraits at school. Not that that's surprising, given how inbred the wizard aristocracy is – even worse than the Muggle lot. Certainly, in those grey dress robes he could have stepped straight out of one of those formal paintings. The living embodiment of pureblood wizard society: proud, elegant, powerful – and rotten to the core. That he's allowed to hob-nob at the Ministry when he's capable of doing what he's done to me... Oh, I bet he puts on a respectable face for them, but surely they ought to be able to tell...?

Would it really make any difference if they did? It's not as if a society that condones slavery could have any morals to speak of. I should have realised that when they bowed down to him over Buckbeak even after what he'd done in second year.

Well, perhaps they didn't know about that.

But what if they did? They still fired him from the governors' board, didn't they?

Oh come on, it's not as if things are that much better in the Muggle world. And there are plenty of good wizards. Look at Mr Weasley, or Professor Dumbledore.

Yes, just look at them. They couldn't even guard Harry properly last summer, and they've not exactly done anything to rescue me yet, have they? So much for all that stuff they told my parents when I got my first letter. 'Don't worry about a thing. We'll look after her.'

And since when did Hermione Granger want 'looking after'?

I wouldn't say no to it right now if it got me out of here...

But either they don't care, or they really don't know where I am. Or they know but they can't do anything.

I shiver.

Professor McGonagall wouldn't leave me here if she could get me out. I know that.

Professor McGonagall wouldn't sit around waiting to be rescued, either. I am not helpless. I can't wait to see that bastard's face when he finds out I can do wandless magic.

Like 'Lumos' is such a threat.

Well, I have to start somewhere, don't I? And if I'm to have any hope of using it, I have to practice. So...

"Lumos."

But I only get the faintest phosphorescent glow. And I can't hold it. And my head is throbbing. Either one of his warding spells is absorbing the power, or I'm just too weak. Or hungry. Or tired. Still drowsy, at least...

.

I don't know how long I've slept for. I don't feel all that refreshed. My leg is hurting again. And I'm ravenously hungry.

Nothing much I can do about that. At least I didn't dream about him that time. Not so that I can remember, anyhow.

What's he up to?

Why doesn't he come back?

You want him to come back?

Of course not. But... what if something's happened to him?

Well, that would be a good thing, wouldn't it? It might mean they've arrested him. Maybe they're on their way now to rescue you.

It might mean he's lying dead somewhere.

At least then he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else.

But I don't want to die here!

Like he isn't going to kill you anyway?

But it's so unfair!

So what happened to Cedric was 'fair'?

Oh God, of course it wasn't. Of course I can't claim the right to a better deal than he got.

But given the choice, you'd rather stay alive.

Of course I would! Who wouldn't?

And that is a statement worthy of Voldemort.

What? That's completely different! I just want to live my life – I don't want to kill anyone!

But if your staying alive depends on him staying alive, doesn't that amount to the same thing?

It's hardly my fault that he does what he does! And anyhow, it's not as if I have much of a say in what happens to him out there.

But if you did...?

I can't think about this anymore. I haven't eaten properly for days – how am I supposed to think straight? I've got better things to do than lie here and argue with myself.

Could have fooled me.

I'm going to get some water, and then I'm going back to sleep.

Whatever.

.

Still dark.

Of course it's still dark. He's not going to come back. He's just going to leave me down here.

If he's really not coming back...

No. I don't want to die. Where is he?

Stupid question. Probably up in his sodding manor house, having a party.

I'll just go back to sleep, then.

No! You need to get up!

Why? I need to conserve my energy, don't I? And I'm really tired.

You need to drink something! Get up!

Oh, all right...

.

I heard something. He's out there.

Or... maybe it's Professor McGonagall come to fetch me...

I'm going home!

No... I was just imagining it.

Or dreaming...

Imagining.

Dreaming would be better.

I'm awake. I'm sure I'm awake.

What's the point in that?

Better... just to... sleep....

.

I stare groggily at the wall. I can hardly focus on the edges of the stones.

I can see the wall.

That means it's not dark. Which means I'm not alone. I roll over onto my back.

It's him.

I close my eyes. What did I expect? The massed ranks of the Order of the Phoenix, riding in on a blaze of glory?

But... at least it's someone, even if it is him. I probably shouldn't feel relieved, but I do.

I open my eyes again. He's standing quietly beside the bed. He looks almost... worried.

Worried? Him? Yeah, right. I must be delirious. Or dreaming again.

I close my eyes.

"I think you can get up now, Mudblood," he says.

Oh, that's original. And not very dreamlike. But at least he's not sounding angry.

I open my eyes and sit up. And almost fall back again. My head is spinning.

He frowns... but unless I'm completely out of it he still seems to be more concerned than annoyed. Then he sees me watching, and glares.

"Getting up generally involves getting out of bed," he snaps. "So get on with it. We've wasted enough time as it is."

Did I really say I was relieved to see the bastard?

And where the hell has he been, anyway?

I put my feet on the floor. He's less than a metre away from me, but I'm too dizzy to care about that. I reach out for the stick. Then I remember and put my hand on the bedpost instead. I don't want him to know that I was misusing his curtain rail...

I glance up at him. He's looking down at me, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Whatever.

I pull myself upright and stand, swaying a little. I cling to the post for support. I look at him, but I can't quite focus. Not that I really want to. He's gone back to black, is about all that registers. Black robes. Black gloves, with imperious black fingers pointing at the chair beside the desk...

I don't have the energy even for passive resistance. I take a deep breath and limp across the room. I manage to do it without falling over, though I come close to it a couple of times.

He follows me, and leans against the desk. He's produced a flask from somewhere, and he pours a golden potion into the goblet. He holds it out to me wordlessly.

At least it's not Probitaserum. It doesn't look or smell like anything else I've ever seen, either.

"Don't be stubborn, Mudblood. You know you don't have any choice in the end."

I really shouldn't have been relieved to see him.

I reach out and take it. It's surprisingly heavy.

Oh, what's the use?

I take a sip. It's slightly bitter, but certainly not the foulest potion I've ever tasted. I swallow another mouthful. I'm not sure how much I can drink at once.

But actually, that gnawing pain in my stomach seems to have lessened a little.

"All of it, Mudblood. I don't have all day."

Give me a chance, you arrogant git.

I drink it down, as slowly as I dare. He takes the goblet from me.

"Better?"

Actually, I do feel better. The dizzy feeling has gone. I feel more alert – and less hungry. I don't exactly feel full, either, but it's definitely an improvement. I nod.

"Good. You're no use to me if you can't think straight."

That doesn't sound good.

He walks back towards the bed. I turn in the chair to watch him. He sniffs fastidiously.

"It's starting to smell in here. I think you've been spending too much time lying in bed. It's really not an appealing habit."

So what did he expect me to do?

Exactly that, probably. You know what he's like.

Yes. Only too well. Bastard.

He flicks his wand and a new pile of sheets, towels and blankets appears on the bed. "I normally leave such things to house-elves," he says, "but then I don't suppose you will object to saving them some work. By the next time I come here, you will have changed the bed. And I expect to find it a lot tidier than it was today."

He looks down at the neatly folded curtains and the pieces of curtain-rail leaning against the wall. He glances back at me, almost approvingly. I feel myself relax slightly.

Not that I wanted his approval.

He looks up at the gap where the rail was and mutters a few words. Within a couple of seconds the broken rails have snapped back into place and the curtains are hanging there as if they'd never fallen in the first place.

I turn away and stare miserably at the desk. How long was I struggling with those curtains? I don't have a chance. I can hardly even walk across the room, and he had the power to fix everything with a twitch of his little finger.

Come off it, Hermione. You know that's not fair.

And he's standing in front of me again.

"Don't imagine for one moment that you've heard the last of this," he says quietly. "I warned you not to force me to break anything. And you have a lot more than that to answer for."

I really shouldn't have been relieved to see him.

He looks at me carefully, inspecting my unruly hair, wary expression, slept-in robe, bare toes. I stare at the wall behind the desk, shifting my weight to sit up straighter, and try not to blush.

He points at my sore leg.

"Let me see that."

What? Why? Didn't he do enough damage the first time round?

But, as he said, it's not as if I have a lot of choice in the end. I lift my foot up onto the desk.

He wrinkles his nose in distaste, but prods at firmly at my ankle with the tip of his wand. I bite my lip against the pain. He holds his wand over my leg and mutters something under his breath. A pulsing white glow wraps around it, and he peers in carefully. I watch, gripping the arms of the chair, but I can't quite see what he's doing. At least it doesn't hurt.

He waves away the glow. "Try that."

I touch my leg where he scratched me – the pain and that unnatural heat are completely gone. I place my foot on the floor and get up cautiously. It doesn't seem to hurt. At all.

"Stand up properly!" he snaps. "Don't you trust me?"

Trust? Trust?

Oh yeah, I trust you all right. Trust you to do the most vile thing you can...

His eyes narrow. He frowns.

"Thank you," I say hurriedly.

Well, he did fix my ankle, for whatever reason of his own. And I can do without another lecture about my lack of gratitude every time he solves a problem that he caused in the first place.

He nods curtly. "We wouldn't want you to have trouble walking, would we?"

I wouldn't. I can't imagine why he would care either way. Should I be worried about that?

"You can sit down now."

As soon as I do, he points his wand at me – and I lose the ability to move. Not Petrified, just a complete lack of control over my limbs. I literally can't lift a finger.

He smiles. "You have a problem, Mudblood?"

Bastard. I find that I do have control over my mouth. I reply through gritted teeth.

"I seem to be having a little trouble walking."

He smirks. "Yes, well, you would, wouldn't you? Perhaps I can take your mind off that." He reaches into the folds of his robes, and brings out a knife.

A large knife. A horribly familiar looking knife.

He laughs.

"You know, I get the distinct impression that you're more afraid of this than the wand."

He holds it up in front of my face. Definitely the same knife...

"Foolish of you," he continues, "when a wand can do everything this can do, and so much more. But it's a common Mudblood phobia – even when they've lived among wizards for forty years, that reaction gives them away every time. Though even I have to admit that the blade has a certain... aesthetic."

He has the tip of the knife under my chin now, too close for me to watch. But I can feel the fabric of the robe shifting as he pulls down on its wide neck. And I can feel that pinprick of cold steel just below my right shoulder.

"Yes," he breathes, "I think it went in just about... here."

He pushes a little harder. There's a sick fear rising from the pit of my stomach. But it can't hurt worse than what he's done to me already. Can it? I swallow.

He lifts my chin with one gloved finger. There's a hideous light in his eyes.

"Ah yes, Mudblood," he gloats. "Revenge is so sweet – don't you agree?"

There's a sharp sting in my shoulder. I resist the urge to jerk my head away. I can't move my limbs and there's nothing whatsoever I can do to stop him.

"Should I continue, little one? Would you scream loudly for me?"

Just get on with it if you're going to do it, you sick bastard!

But he just smiles his twisted smile and pulls the knife away. He holds it up in front of my face. The tip is tinged with red.

I shudder.

"Ah well, that's another little pleasure we have to look forward to, hmm? But not tonight, much as I regret that. We don't have time to deal with that kind of mess just now."

He steps back and places the knife on the desk.

"So. Did you miss me, these last few days?"

Miss him? Miss him? Of course I didn't 'miss' him! I couldn't help wondering where the bastard had got to, but that's different.

"Don't worry, Mudblood," he says softly. "I won't make you answer that one." There's a smile playing round his lips. A smile I'd love to wipe off his face.

I challenge him. "Did you miss me, then?"

What on earth made me say that?

He just grins broadly, leaning back and folding his arms. His gaze floats down from my head to my... toes, and sweeps back up to meet mine.

"Of course I missed you, little one. How could I not?"

I look away.

"I wasn't actually intending to be away for quite so long," he continues. "But some of your idiot teachers seem to have come to the conclusion that I knew something about your sudden disappearance."

I snap my head back to stare at him, eyes narrowed. Could he be telling the truth?

He laughs. "Oh, you needn't get your hopes up – I don't think anyone will suggest such a thing again. I can't abide that kind of slander. And neither can the Minister. Why, the very idea is preposterous!"

But if the Order knows...

"Nevertheless," he tells me, "I did of course offer to let them come and search the Manor. Needless to say they didn't find anything. Nor will they."

I look down – I'm not sure I'll be able to hide my desperation otherwise. But I will not give up hope!

"Yes, Mudblood, you're quite safe here for the moment," he says. "As long as you learn to co-operate, that is. And as long as nobody else out there starts jumping to stupid conclusions. I have no intention of – as you so charmingly put it – 'rotting in Azkaban', but I assure you that if that should ever come to pass, I very much doubt I'll be inclined to tell anyone where you are. You do understand what that means, don't you?"

I worked that one out on my own. And it's not something I want to dwell on.

"Look at me."

I take in those long-fingered hands resting on the elegantly cut robes; that thin face framed by impeccably groomed hair; the chalk-white skin and sardonic smile; the hard eyes that are the only clue to the depths of cruelty behind that sickeningly smooth facade. And while he has me trapped here, my survival depends on his.

But there's more than that behind his meticulous mask. An indefinable aura of power... If anyone can survive, it's him, surely? That should not bring me hope, but some part of me clings to it fiercely.

But if I ever get out of here, we'll see whose life depends on whom...

He smiles lazily. "So, now that we understand each other a little better, I think we have some catching up to do." He holds up a small vial. The liquid inside is colourless.

Veritaserum.

Well, I knew it would come to this, didn't I? Why didn't I just Obliviate myself when I had the chance? I should have known it was hopeless.

"Ah, so you recognise it," he grins. "I wouldn't have expected anything less."

He removes the stopper.

At least the Order will have had enough time by now to protect themselves against anything I can tell him. But do they know how much we saw?

"I hope you found the Probitaserum as... enlightening as I did," he smirks. "But I'm afraid we'll have to resort to the less entertaining method, now that we no longer have the luxury of time. I wouldn't want you to think I wasn't interested in what you have to say."

Why is he so concerned about time all of a sudden? It's not as if I'm going anywhere. Unless... unless he thinks the Order is about to rescue me after all? If I can just hang on a little longer...

He lifts the vial. "Open wide."

Bastard. How many times have I heard Mum or Dad saying that? I shut my mouth tightly.

He frowns, passes the vial to his left hand, and reaches behind him for the knife.

"Now, as I was saying," he says softly, "I really don't have time for that attitude of yours today."

He touches the knife to my left temple and slowly draws it down my cheek. Not a deep cut, it can't be, but it hurts and it takes all my self-control not to squirm. If his hand slips...

If he chooses to let his hand slip...

I open my mouth.

"Good girl." He shifts the knife to his left hand, taking back the vial in his right. "Now stick out your tongue."

I do as he says. It feels like a twisted parody of the Catholic girls down the road, taking their Holy Communion. But instead of the Truth and the Light, I get Veritaserum and... him.

I close my eyes.

"No, do watch," he murmurs.

I feel the cold metal of the knife, flat against my right cheek. I open my eyes.

I hate you.

But that almost makes it worse, because there is nothing I can do but watch him as he smiles triumphantly and tilts the vial to shake three drops onto my tongue. And then there is no more room for hate or fear or despair as the numbness seeps through my body and mind.

"You didn't really think you were going to hold out, did you?" His voice seems very far away.

"No." An echo of protest dies inside.

"No," he repeats. "Perhaps you should remember that next time."

He wanted that answer for me, not for him. I hate him but the resentment fizzles out... it's too much effort to follow it.

"Now," he says, "I want a detailed description of everyone you saw when you stayed at Twelve, Grimmauld Place."

And I tell him. Names when I know them, physical descriptions when I don't. I barely register his satisfaction when I mention Professor Snape, but he makes me repeat every word I heard him say. I didn't know I remembered that much – not to mention little details like the frayed edges of a robe or the scorch-mark on a witch's cloak. What else have I forgotten I knew?

Much, much more than I thought. I'm exhausted by the time he lets me stop.

He removes his immobilising spell and leaves me in the dark with a bowl of soup. It doesn't taste of much, but I eat it anyway.

.

I'm already awake when he returns. He makes me sit paralysed in the chair again – this time he's not taking any chances. Again he holds the flat of the knife against my cheek as he drips Veritaserum into my mouth. But I wasn't going to resist anyway. He's right – there's nothing I can do. And I told him everything I knew yesterday.

But he soon proves me wrong there.

"Do you remember," he begins, "that I mentioned I was dining with Dolores Umbridge last week?"

"Yes."

He smiles at my prompt and involuntary response. My indignation dies in the void left by this potion that stifles my feelings and my will and my ability to resist.

"She was just as tedious as I anticipated," he continues, "but she did have one or two interesting things to say. According to her, there are students at Hogwarts who – for some unfathomable reason – don't put their trust in the Ministry's protection. Apparently, a handful of them have even decided to teach themselves unauthorised spells."

Oh God. He knows about the DA...

He laughs. "Why do I get the impression that this isn't news to you? And you were supposed to be a prefect, too – even a Mudblood should know that means enforcing the rules. But it's a little late for that, now, isn't it? So you'd better just tell me who was involved."

I reel off a deadpan list of names.

Itching boils erupt across my face.

That jinx of mine worked, then. Fat lot of good it does me now. I should have worked in some sort of alarm for the others.

He stares in astonishment, then smiles with something almost resembling delight.

"Well, well, well. Did you do that?"

"Yes."

I look down, shaking my head so my hair falls across my cheeks. I hate to think what it looks like, and I didn't realise it would itch so much. It's probably just as well I can't lift my hands to scratch.

He lifts my chin and peers at the marks closely.

"Very interesting, Mudblood. I wouldn't say it's an improvement, but you have to admit it's rather appropriate. I see no reason to hide your handiwork." He tucks my hair behind my ears.

The Veritaserum takes the edge off my humiliation – and it's not as if I care what he thinks of how I look – but still, if I could lift my hands to hide what's written on my face, I would. I'm not a sneak. It shouldn't count when it's forced out of you.

"So is that the sort of thing you were teaching each other?"

"No."

"Well then, what have you been practising?"

So I tell him what we learned, and where we met, and how we communicated. It doesn't take long. When he hears about my Protean Charm, he raises an eyebrow and tells me to list all the spells I've taught myself. That takes a lot longer. And he seems rather more attentive. I don't know why, and under the influence of the potion I can't summon up enough interest to care.

At last he releases me, and watches while I eat a bowl of soup – spiced pumpkin, this time. I'm starting to get a craving for fresh fruit, but I'm not about to ask him for it.

Then he goes, and I collapse exhausted on the bed. Now that the potion has worn off, the itching is worse than ever. I bury my face in the pillow. It takes all my willpower to stop myself from scratching.

They are going to rescue me. I just need to hang on for a bit longer...

On the third day he asks me about Harry. I tell him... well, anything is more than I'd choose to say, isn't it? Of course I don't want to tell him how Harry recognised him in the graveyard, of course I don't want him to know that Harry saw him in that Dark Arts shop – but more than that... the moment Harry and Ron arrived to save me from that troll, the way they felt about falling out with each other last year, the things Harry never says about his parents... those things are private. I do my best to clear my mind, to not know, but in the end I can't hide anything he asks about, of course.

I'm so sorry, Harry.

The day after that, he lets me sit free of the paralysing spell. It doesn't make any practical difference. I let him give me the potion, and then he asks about Ron and his family. Ron... all our stupid bickering seems doubly petty when seen through the flat lens of Veritaserum, and when he smiles his disdainful smile and asks me exactly how close we are... my hatred dives to new and bitter depths.

And then he has me describe The Burrow in such detail he could probably draw a floor plan.

After he leaves, and the potion's deadening effect recedes to allow me my voice and my feelings and my shame, I vow from the depths of my soul that I will have my revenge for that invasion. What have those things got to do with him? What does he care about how I feel about my friends? I will make him regret he asked those questions, once I get out of here.

And I will get out of here. I will see Ron again.

On the fifth day I have to describe our fights with his nasty little son. It's a long session. And afterwards... I don't want to think about it. I don't really feel what he does, anyway – at least, not until the potion wears off. I didn't know that Flagellation Hexes could draw blood. I didn't know it was possible to hear a spell crack bone and give no reaction beyond a toneless recitation of how the pain gets worse as he pushes my arm... I'm not going to think about it, I'm not going to think about it... I don't think he approves of the Polyjuice incident. Or the time I slapped the stupid prat.

He mends the bone – I've no idea why he bothers, unless he just wants to hear me thank him for it – but he doesn't leave me any food this time. The way I feel, I'd probably be too sick to eat it anyway.

On the sixth day he orders me to talk about Muggles – not the sort of eager interrogation that Mr Weasley revelled in, but incisive questions about communications, weapons... and, oddly, orphanages. That world seems as distant as his relentless voice, but I tell him all I can. It seems a bit pointless – it's obvious he doesn't understand, and I tell him that as well when he snidely asks why I can't even explain my own world. He soon makes me wish I hadn't.

And on the seventh day...

When he Apparates I've been up for hours, running through the Elder Futhark. One look at him wipes the runes from my mind.

He's wearing black, as usual, but the robe is plain, heavy and hooded.

A Death Eater's robe.

It doesn't mean anything. It's not as if he needs to hide what he is from me, not now.

I walk towards the chair, wondering what he's going to wring from me this time. Not that wondering will change anything.

"Stop.”

I freeze, and glance over at him. He's almost on his toes, his weight is so far forward. That tension is a stark contrast to his lazy smile.

It doesn't mean anything.

He looks me up and down, and then paces around me. I feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck.

What's he doing?

There's never been a good answer to that question. And there's never been anything I could do about it, either. My mouth is suddenly very dry.

He steps closer. I squash my urge to back away. He's peering at those horrible spots again. Some of them are weeping slightly – it's so hard not to scratch.

"I think I've put up with these for long enough," he says, "and I'm sure you have. Will you let me get rid of them?"

It's not a rhetorical question. It was me who set the jinx, so removing it is a lot easier with my consent. And I don't think he'll be able to trace the link through to the others – though as he already knows who they are it doesn't make much difference.

I nod. He raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, please," I say wearily, hating him.

His concentration deepens all the little lines that spread from the corner of his eyes.

"Finite."

It takes a minute for the itching to stop. And God it's a relief...

"That's much more agreeable," he says. "Now, if you go and wash, we can get started."

Get started on what, I wonder, as the water splashes into the sink. Somehow I don't think I really want to find out. But somehow I don't think I'm going to get any choice in the matter.

No. There's still time for the Order to get me out of here.

But if you're coming, please do it soon!

There's a mirror over the sink, set in a heavy wooden frame. I've not really looked in it before. My reflection is not a pretty sight. There's no sign of those spots, but that knife has left an ugly thin scar down the left side of my face, and my hair is as wild as it's ever been. And I look pale, washed out. This robe probably doesn't help – Lavender was always saying that black's not my colour.

I run my wet fingers through my hair. I could almost pretend that it makes a difference... but what do I care anyhow? It's not as if he's likely to treat me any better if I'm more presentable. Still, there's something unsettling about the idea of facing him knowing that I look as if I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. I don't need to give him something else to be nasty about.

But it's what's inside that counts. He's a prime example of that.

I turn from the mirror, leave the bathroom – and stop, clinging to the doorknob. He's standing haughtily in the middle of the room, beckoning me over. I can't bring myself to go a step closer to him – but on the other hand, if I don't do what he wants... I force myself to move.

There's a small wad of black silk in his left hand.

He unfolds it carefully. Inside is a small silver ring, deeply engraved with crooked runes that I don't recognise. He holds it out between his thumb and forefinger.

I take a step backwards. I do not want to touch that thing. The metal is bright against his black gloves, but there's something about the way those runes twist that is inexplicably Dark.

"You don't have to be quite so nervous," he says, but this close I can see a malevolent glint in his eyes that contradicts his words. "After the last few days I'd have thought you'd be in the mood for something a little different. I know I am." At that he grins.

What's he going to do?

I've read quite a bit about magical objects, of course, but there are so many types that often even the experts can't tell what they do without running a whole load of diagnostic spells. And the only test I'm in a position to make is the one every instinct is telling me to avoid.

Though even if I knew what it was, would it help me?

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a patronising smile.

Bastard. He's not going to intimidate me that easily. I mirror the look as best I can. Underneath I can feel my heart thumping.

The smile fades to a slight frown. "Take it."

There's an edge in his voice that I cannot refuse. Whatever that ring does, he can do far worse without using it. He's proved that often enough.

I force myself to reach out for it. He lifts it away.

"Hold out your hand."

I glance up at his face, but it's unreadable. I do as he says.

He drops the ring into my palm.

My stomach lurches. The room dissolves around me.

And I'm spinning, spinning into darkness...