Fic: September Morn (Part Three)
Here is the next part of The Story That Was Supposed To Be Almost Over By This Point.
Part One
Part Two
September Morn
A post-Hogwarts H/D story
Rating PG (at the moment)
Part Three of Possibly Five
Beta-ed by olivia_lupin ... my little angel
********************
The water was cold, but at least it was clean.
Harry Potter stared at the bucket for a long time debating what he wanted more -- to be clean or to drink. The smooth surface of the water reflected back the glow of the spluttering torchlight almost as though it was on fire itself and he found it difficult to make a rational decision about anything. Even something as simple as to drink or not.
It must be morning he decided, or at least what he assumed was morning. With no windows it was difficult to tell and easy to lose track. There was always a bucket full of water there when he woke up, so he’d taken to assuming it must be morning. Three buckets of water meant it must be Saturday.
He scratched absently at his hair, knowing that there was dried blood from a head wound. The now brown-coloured stain ran over his left ear and discoloured his shirt. The blow still hurt, but at least the pounding had gone from his head, replaced by a muzziness he thought might be concussion.
What if the water was poisoned? His little rational inner voice questioned quite properly. The voice in his head sounded like Draco and it seemed to be there all the time now; maybe it was a replacement for the lack of company. He hadn’t seen or talked to anyone since he got here. He tried not to think about Draco -- tried not to wonder if there was any way Draco or the others could find him here.
Wherever ‘here’ was.
Why go to all this trouble if all they wanted to do is poison me? And was answering his inner voice a sign of going mad? he wondered.
Don’t go there, Harry, the voice responded. Just listen to your sensible Inner Voice. What if the water’s drugged? Or charmed? Or any of a number of other equally nasty alternatives?
They’re probably going to kill me anyway. Why go to my death thirsty?
The flickering surface of the water beckoned, and finally giving in, Harry used his hand to cup water to his mouth. It was like nectar to his dry throat and he was desperate for more. But instead he sat back on his heels and waited.
And waited.
Basic training, he reminded himself, said that if you had to eat or drink something when the origins were unknown, then take just a little and see what effect it has on you. He felt no different. There were none of the effects he might have expected from drugs or charms. Nothing but the sweet sensation of coolness in his mouth and throat. Risking another mouthful, Harry also splashed some on his face. They’d taken away his glasses when they had brought him here. Those and his belt and shoelaces. What did they think he was going to do? Try to kill himself?
He dropped back against the cold stone wall and, after a moment’s hesitation, hugged his knees to his chest. He convinced himself that that posture was to keep him warm, but there was also something just a little comforting in it.
Make yourself small, Harry, if you are small they might not see you.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes briefly and rested his forehead on his knees.
But you’re not a child anymore. Now you are an adult and you have to deal with the consequences of your actions. You can’t hide in the shadows any longer.
It had been a stupid mistake, really, that had led to him being here. Overconfidence in his own magical power and in his abilities on a broom. The Death Eaters had used something that Harry could only describe as a big invisible spider’s web, which he’d run into. It seemed to act as a magical dampener and once trapped in the magical strands, he’d been able to do absolutely nothing. In fact he hadn’t been able to use his magic ever since, not even on his own injuries. It was as if, he decided, they’d stripped all his powers away and left him with nothing.
Big mistake, Harry. This is probably what it feels like to be a Muggle.
Harry shifted a little, resting his back on the stone, grateful for the chill on his skin. It cooled the growing heat in his body and he wondered not for the first time just how ill he was. The dungeon felt damp and he could feel a constriction in his chest. “That would be good,” he muttered quietly. “I could die of pneumonia before Voldemort gets to me.”
The word ‘dungeon’ really did describe the room to perfection, Harry decided. It was like something out of a Grimm’s Fairy Tale; dank stone walls and floor, low ceiling, spluttering torchlight. One wall had a wooden door with a grilled hole at head-height in it. If he didn’t know he was a wizard and that this was, indeed, a magical place, he would have decided he was probably very drunk or very drugged. It was a cleverly constructed place, he had to admit, he could feel the wards woven into the stone that stopped him using his own magic, and with nothing better to do for the last few days he had studied virtually every brick in the place for a way out. Nothing. It was as if the whole room was hermetically sealed, cut off completely from the outside world.
It was also possible, he mused, that he wasn’t in this room at all. Could it all be a clever illusion? Or a spell such as Imperius making him act and react against his will? Well, whatever it was, he wished Voldemort or whoever held him prisoner would just get on with it.
********************
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the booming voice, which echoed through his cell, made him physically jump. His head was hurting again and he realised for the first time that the pain was actually radiating from the scar on he forehead. He pressed it hard against the bony edge of his knee hoping that one pain would cancel out the other.
It didn’t.
The voice was clearly castigating someone, of that much Harry could make out. Odd snatches of the conversation, interspersed with what had to be someone being hit.
“He’s where?”
“Didn’t I tell you to look after him?”
“Idiot.”
“If he’s injured our master will rip out your intestines and make you strangle yourself with them.”
Then much quieter, which made the words sound even more sinister. “Get out of my sight.”
A shadow passed over the opening in the door and Harry watched the space through his blurry eyes. He was still holding his knees when the door creaked open (yes, it actually creaked like something out of a horror film) and the shadow became a solid human being.
The new-comer was tall, well over six feet, Harry decided, and dressed entirely in black -- elegant robes, well-cut trousers with the toes of well-crafted boots peeking out. Long platinum blond hair framed elegant features and cold grey eyes studied him with the intensity of a bird of prey. And his hands played endlessly with a dark wooden cane topped by a silver snake’s head, it’s mouth open to sink fangs into the flesh of its enemies.
Were those snake fangs still tipped with poison, Harry wondered. He let his head drop back to rest against the wall. He managed a smirk as, with a measured voice, clear despite its lack of use over the days of his imprisonment, he finally broke the silence that hung between them.
“Hello, Lucius.”
~~~ End of Part Two
10th September 2004
Part One
Part Two
September Morn
A post-Hogwarts H/D story
Rating PG (at the moment)
Part Three of Possibly Five
Beta-ed by olivia_lupin ... my little angel
********************
The water was cold, but at least it was clean.
Harry Potter stared at the bucket for a long time debating what he wanted more -- to be clean or to drink. The smooth surface of the water reflected back the glow of the spluttering torchlight almost as though it was on fire itself and he found it difficult to make a rational decision about anything. Even something as simple as to drink or not.
It must be morning he decided, or at least what he assumed was morning. With no windows it was difficult to tell and easy to lose track. There was always a bucket full of water there when he woke up, so he’d taken to assuming it must be morning. Three buckets of water meant it must be Saturday.
He scratched absently at his hair, knowing that there was dried blood from a head wound. The now brown-coloured stain ran over his left ear and discoloured his shirt. The blow still hurt, but at least the pounding had gone from his head, replaced by a muzziness he thought might be concussion.
What if the water was poisoned? His little rational inner voice questioned quite properly. The voice in his head sounded like Draco and it seemed to be there all the time now; maybe it was a replacement for the lack of company. He hadn’t seen or talked to anyone since he got here. He tried not to think about Draco -- tried not to wonder if there was any way Draco or the others could find him here.
Wherever ‘here’ was.
Why go to all this trouble if all they wanted to do is poison me? And was answering his inner voice a sign of going mad? he wondered.
Don’t go there, Harry, the voice responded. Just listen to your sensible Inner Voice. What if the water’s drugged? Or charmed? Or any of a number of other equally nasty alternatives?
They’re probably going to kill me anyway. Why go to my death thirsty?
The flickering surface of the water beckoned, and finally giving in, Harry used his hand to cup water to his mouth. It was like nectar to his dry throat and he was desperate for more. But instead he sat back on his heels and waited.
And waited.
Basic training, he reminded himself, said that if you had to eat or drink something when the origins were unknown, then take just a little and see what effect it has on you. He felt no different. There were none of the effects he might have expected from drugs or charms. Nothing but the sweet sensation of coolness in his mouth and throat. Risking another mouthful, Harry also splashed some on his face. They’d taken away his glasses when they had brought him here. Those and his belt and shoelaces. What did they think he was going to do? Try to kill himself?
He dropped back against the cold stone wall and, after a moment’s hesitation, hugged his knees to his chest. He convinced himself that that posture was to keep him warm, but there was also something just a little comforting in it.
Make yourself small, Harry, if you are small they might not see you.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes briefly and rested his forehead on his knees.
But you’re not a child anymore. Now you are an adult and you have to deal with the consequences of your actions. You can’t hide in the shadows any longer.
It had been a stupid mistake, really, that had led to him being here. Overconfidence in his own magical power and in his abilities on a broom. The Death Eaters had used something that Harry could only describe as a big invisible spider’s web, which he’d run into. It seemed to act as a magical dampener and once trapped in the magical strands, he’d been able to do absolutely nothing. In fact he hadn’t been able to use his magic ever since, not even on his own injuries. It was as if, he decided, they’d stripped all his powers away and left him with nothing.
Big mistake, Harry. This is probably what it feels like to be a Muggle.
Harry shifted a little, resting his back on the stone, grateful for the chill on his skin. It cooled the growing heat in his body and he wondered not for the first time just how ill he was. The dungeon felt damp and he could feel a constriction in his chest. “That would be good,” he muttered quietly. “I could die of pneumonia before Voldemort gets to me.”
The word ‘dungeon’ really did describe the room to perfection, Harry decided. It was like something out of a Grimm’s Fairy Tale; dank stone walls and floor, low ceiling, spluttering torchlight. One wall had a wooden door with a grilled hole at head-height in it. If he didn’t know he was a wizard and that this was, indeed, a magical place, he would have decided he was probably very drunk or very drugged. It was a cleverly constructed place, he had to admit, he could feel the wards woven into the stone that stopped him using his own magic, and with nothing better to do for the last few days he had studied virtually every brick in the place for a way out. Nothing. It was as if the whole room was hermetically sealed, cut off completely from the outside world.
It was also possible, he mused, that he wasn’t in this room at all. Could it all be a clever illusion? Or a spell such as Imperius making him act and react against his will? Well, whatever it was, he wished Voldemort or whoever held him prisoner would just get on with it.
********************
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the booming voice, which echoed through his cell, made him physically jump. His head was hurting again and he realised for the first time that the pain was actually radiating from the scar on he forehead. He pressed it hard against the bony edge of his knee hoping that one pain would cancel out the other.
It didn’t.
The voice was clearly castigating someone, of that much Harry could make out. Odd snatches of the conversation, interspersed with what had to be someone being hit.
“He’s where?”
“Didn’t I tell you to look after him?”
“Idiot.”
“If he’s injured our master will rip out your intestines and make you strangle yourself with them.”
Then much quieter, which made the words sound even more sinister. “Get out of my sight.”
A shadow passed over the opening in the door and Harry watched the space through his blurry eyes. He was still holding his knees when the door creaked open (yes, it actually creaked like something out of a horror film) and the shadow became a solid human being.
The new-comer was tall, well over six feet, Harry decided, and dressed entirely in black -- elegant robes, well-cut trousers with the toes of well-crafted boots peeking out. Long platinum blond hair framed elegant features and cold grey eyes studied him with the intensity of a bird of prey. And his hands played endlessly with a dark wooden cane topped by a silver snake’s head, it’s mouth open to sink fangs into the flesh of its enemies.
Were those snake fangs still tipped with poison, Harry wondered. He let his head drop back to rest against the wall. He managed a smirk as, with a measured voice, clear despite its lack of use over the days of his imprisonment, he finally broke the silence that hung between them.
“Hello, Lucius.”
~~~ End of Part Two
10th September 2004