Malfoy's back vanished through the heavy door, which slammed shut behind him with a thunderous finality that rang in my ears. The sound echoed like a gavel in a courtroom—like a sentence passed.
He'd locked me in. Just like that. No parting remark. No sneer. Just the sharp click of the lock.
I stared at the door, fury twisting hot in my chest. I wanted to curse him—badly. Blast the handle clean off; hex that arrogant look from his face. I could almost see it, feel the satisfaction of wiping the smirk away, watching him fall.
But then—burning.
A sharp sting exploded along my forearm, yanking me out of the fantasy. The Dark Mark flared to life beneath my skin, searing hot, as though the snake itself had awakened, coiling tighter around my bones. I gasped, breath catching in my throat.
Voldemort. I didn't need to see him. I didn't even need to hear him. His presence found me anyway, whispering through the pain like smoke through a crack in the door.
You're mine.
The words weren't spoken aloud, but I heard them all the same—inside my skull, under my skin. A curse I carried.
I clenched my teeth and shoved the thought away. No. I couldn't give in to that—not now. But I couldn't fight back either. Not properly. Not without paying for it.
I knew that. I'd learnt it the hard way.
Every act of defiance had a cost. Pain was his reply to resistance—swift, brutal, and unrelenting.
The burn intensified, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. A reminder. A threat. A leash.
I dropped to my knees in front of my trunk, hands trembling as I started rummaging through it, tossing out whatever I could get my hands on—old textbooks, tangled socks, a cracked Sneakoscope that hadn't worked in months. Nothing useful. Nothing that could protect me.
And still—no wand.
That truth hit harder than I wanted to admit. I'd not seen it since last night. That piece of wood, simple as it was, had been everything. A part of me. It knew me. With it, I'd felt… whole. Capable.
Now, I felt naked. Vulnerable. The sort of vulnerable that left you looking over your shoulder even when you were alone.
I dug faster, more desperately, until my fingers grazed the worn leather of an old schoolbook. Pointless. But I grabbed it anyway. Maybe some part of me thought it would help. Or maybe I just needed to do something.
I staggered to my feet, clutching the book, and stumbled over to the window. Without hesitating, I lifted it above my head and hurled it at the glass with a ragged shout.
"Break! Come on—break!"
It didn't.
The book bounced off the window like it was nothing, thudded to the ground, and lay there in silence. The glass shimmered faintly, utterly unbothered.
Of course. Of course it was bloody enchanted. Why would anything be easy?
I let out a bitter laugh—short and sharp. The sound came from somewhere raw. It sounded mad, even to me.
I sank down beside the trunk again, my knees scraping stone, the cold bleeding into my skin. My hands trembled as I kept rifling through the mess, more frantic now. My arm throbbed like it was being crushed from the inside, heat radiating from the mark like a fever.
I could barely think. Could barely breathe.
The Mark writhed. I could feel it, like it was alive. The snake slithered just beneath the surface of my skin, every pulse sending fresh agony through my nerves. A cry slipped out—quiet, broken. I tried to swallow it back, but it was too late.
Merlin, I hated that sound. It didn't even sound like me.
I sounded… defeated.
That's what I was, wasn't I?
No wand. No plan. Just a boy curled up on a cold floor, choking on fear and pain. A shadow of the person I used to be.
And I'd sworn—sworn to myself I wouldn't let them see me like this. Not him. Not Malfoy. Not anyone.
But the truth was ugly, and it was sitting right there with me, wrapped around my arm like a chain.
I drew in a shaky breath, bracing for the next wave of pain. It came on schedule, stabbing like knives made of fire. My hand hovered over the Mark, unsure if touching it would help or hurt worse. I didn't know anymore.
I was tired. So bloody tired of the pain, of the fear, of the endless waiting—for the next order, the next punishment, the next something.
Because something always came.
The silence was thick, almost alive. It pressed in from every side, filling the gaps the pain didn't reach. I stared at the door, dreading the sound of it unlocking. Dreading the voice I'd hear on the other side.
Not Malfoy's.
His.
Because Voldemort didn't need to be here to own me. He already did.
I pressed my forehead against the edge of the trunk, the cold bite of the wood steadying me for just a moment. It grounded me. Anchored me in the here and now. Not enough to stop the panic, but enough to keep me from unravelling completely.
Just breathe, Harry. One breath in. One out. Try to think. Try.
But the harder I tried, the faster my thoughts spun out of control, like a broom caught in a storm. My mind kept circling back to the same, unbearable question.
What if no one comes?
What if this was it—locked away, forgotten, nothing but this cursed mark burning into my arm until Voldemort decided I wasn't worth the effort?
A shudder ran through me. The image rooted itself in my mind: me, trapped here until I withered away—powerless, wandless, wasting beneath the weight of pain. Like some broken, discarded thing.
I dragged myself back from the trunk and slumped against the wall, legs folding beneath me, bones aching. My eyes stung, hot and dry, but I refused to cry. Not again. Crying never helped—it never changed anything. I'd learnt that a long time ago.
Still, the silence pressed in, thick and smothering.
I shut my eyes and tried to summon something—anything—that didn't hurt. I pictured Ron's laugh—loud and infectious, full of mischief. Hermione's voice, steady and certain, always knowing what to say when I didn't. Ginny—her fingers curled through mine, grounding me like no one else ever could. I imagined the Burrow at dinnertime, noisy and chaotic and somehow perfect. The sound of forks clinking, Fred and George shouting over everyone, and Mrs. Weasley fussing about the pudding.
That warmth flickered in my chest for a heartbeat. Almost real.
Then the Mark flared again—sudden and savage. The memory shattered. Pain tore through my arm, slicing the air out of my lungs.
I bit down on my lip, hard. I refused to scream. Not again.
A sharp knock behind my ribs. My heart jumped. Footsteps—slow, measured—just outside the door.
My breath caught. Please. Please not him.
I stayed completely still, straining to hear. The steps stopped, just on the other side of the wood. My skin crawled.
A shadow shifted beneath the doorframe. Then nothing.
The silence returned—but now it felt colder, charged like the moment before lightning strikes. I stared at the door, unmoving. Waiting. Bracing.
It creaked. Just a little. Not opening—just pressing. Someone's hand, maybe. Testing. Threatening.
Still, I didn't move. I hardly breathed. I felt like a rabbit caught in a snare, heart hammering, muscles frozen.
Then—retreat. The footsteps faded, growing fainter and fainter until they were swallowed by the corridor. Gone.
I collapsed forward with a trembling breath, forehead resting on my knees. Every muscle in my body ached, stretched tight. I felt like a wire pulled too far—one tug away from snapping.
How long could I survive like this?
As long as I had to. That was the truth of it. There wasn't a choice. There never had been.
And then… his voice came.
"Do you want more pain, Harry?"
It wasn't sound. Not really. His voice didn't come through the door—it slipped inside me, soft and venomous. Like a snake curling beneath my skin. It echoed through my skull, behind my eyes. Like he was already there, sitting in the dark corners of my mind.
I didn't know whether it was the scar or the mark that gave him access. Maybe both. Maybe it didn't matter anymore—maybe there was nowhere he couldn't reach.
Then that laugh. I knew that laugh. Hollow and sharp, full of cruelty and delight. It scraped down my spine like claws. My arm ignited again—white-hot, unbearable. But the laughter was worse. It didn't burn. It didn't cut.
It watched.
"I don't mind giving it," he said, his voice smooth and casual, like he was discussing the weather. "Again. And again."
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay silent. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not a word. Not a whimper.
But the air had gone thick, heavy with his presence. Breathing felt like inhaling poison. My chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, each breath sharp against my ribs. My scar throbbed, a cruel echo of his nearness.
We were linked—by prophecy, by blood, or by whatever twisted joke the universe had played on me. I hated it. I hated him.
But hate wasn't enough. Hate didn't make the fear go away.
"Oh? Silent now?" His voice curved around the silence, mockingly gentle. "Do you think that makes you strong? That silence will save you?"
A pause. Long enough to make my skin crawl.
Then, a cold, amused breath. "Foolish boy. You've never been able to fight me. You can barely fight for yourself. Your pain… it's your own making."
I dropped my gaze to the floor, fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms. My jaw ached, locked in defiance. I wouldn't let him see. I wouldn't give him that.
But the fear was there. Always. He was inside me now—his voice, his curse, his mark. A serpent in the walls of my mind, waiting to strike.
He was right about one thing.
He was winning.
"I can make the pain stop," Voldemort whispered. His voice turned soft, coaxing—like he was offering me mercy instead of torment. "Just obey me. That's all it takes."
And for a heartbeat, it sounded so easy. So bloody tempting.
All I had to do was give in. Just say yes. Let the fire stop eating through my arm. Let the screaming in my head go quiet. I could be free—from the pain, from the pressure, from the constant fear.
But I couldn't. I wouldn't. Not when Ron and Hermione were still out there. Not while Ginny was still fighting. Not while the people I loved were still depending on me to hold the line.
This pain isn't worse than losing them. It can't be.
I shook my head, slow and stubborn. My jaw locked tight. I forced the word out through clenched teeth.
"Never."
It was for me, really. Not for him. A reminder. I had to hold on. I couldn't let him take that, too.
The fire in my arm answered like it was offended. It flared viciously, licking down through muscle and bone, all the way to my fingertips. I grabbed my arm with my other hand, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. The pain grounded me—sharp, real, mine. Better than the dark slipping in around the edges.
Still me. Still Harry. Still fighting.
My grip tightened, knuckles gone white, but the Mark pulsed wilder now—like it could feel my resistance and meant to crush it. My whole body was shaking. I couldn't contain it anymore. The magic in the Mark wasn't pain now. It was fury. Untamed. Writhing under my skin.
And then—something shifted. Snapped.
The pain went from fire to tearing.
A scream ripped from my throat before I could stop it—raw and brutal, echoing off stone. My legs buckled. I crashed to the floor, arm cradled to my chest. Blood poured from the torn skin in rivers, warm and slick down to my wrist.
The cold floor didn't help. It just reminded me how alone I was.
I curled in tighter, gasping. My shirt stuck to my arm, soaked red. The metallic smell filled my nose, making me sick.
I wanted to disappear. Wanted to melt into the stone and vanish. I couldn't do this. Not again. Not like this.
"You'll obey me," Voldemort said, calm as ever. "It's what you are. You always have. Your Muggle relatives. Dumbledore. And now me."
The words cut deeper than the pain.
No. No, don't—
I tried to shut him out, but it was too late. The voice had already cracked something open. I felt it, the question I didn't want to face.
Had I always obeyed?
The Dursleys—years of silence, of keeping my head down to avoid their fists. Dumbledore—always keeping secrets, always guiding me without telling me why. And I followed. I always followed.
Was I even doing this—fighting, resisting—because it was right? Or because I didn't know how to not follow orders?
Was I really that easy to control?
"No!" I shouted suddenly. My voice tore at my throat, harsh and broken. "Don't you dare talk about them!"
He laughed again—quieter this time, almost amused. It slithered into my ears and curled there like rot. I flinched.
"Defying me only brings suffering," he said. "So many of your precious friends are just a few steps from ruin. Wouldn't it be tragic if something… happened to your dear little school?"
I gritted my teeth. My hands clenched into fists. Rage surged in my chest, white-hot—but fear twisted through it like barbed wire.
He meant it. He always meant it.
Ron. Hermione. Ginny.
How many times had I already brought them to the edge? The Department of Mysteries. Malfoy Manor. The Battle of the Astronomy Tower.
I wasn't strong enough to stop it then. Why would I be now?
Sirius. Dumbledore.
How many more?
"Enough!" I shouted. My voice cracked on the word, and the walls didn't echo back—they just swallowed the sound. Like even the room knew how hopeless it was.
"You're already trapped, Harry," he whispered, that mocking edge back in his tone. "Not just here. In your mind. You carry me everywhere now. I twist the knife with a whisper. Tell me—do you really care for their safety?"
I felt him leaning closer. No sound, no breath—but I felt it. Like cold air curling against my neck.
"Or is it all about you?" he murmured. "Proving something to yourself. To me. That you're not as weak as you feel."
I said nothing.
I couldn't. Because maybe—deep down—I wasn't sure what the answer was.
He didn't need a reply. He already knew the doubt was in there. That's how he worked. He didn't attack the outside. He rotted you from within.
"I can show you," he said, softly now, almost kind. "What happens to those who refuse me. You've seen it. Again and again."
And I had.
Ron's pale face, barely conscious. Hermione—blood at the corner of her mouth, still standing, still fighting. Ginny, screaming across the Great Hall, held back as someone fell.
No more. Please, no more.
"You could end it," he offered. "Spare them. Spare yourself. Submit… and I'll make it stop."
I dropped to my knees again, hands tangling in my hair, clutching at my skull. The pain was too much—his voice, the Mark, the blood, the visions. All crashing into each other. No way to sort them. No way to breathe through it.
Faces flashed behind my eyes—blurred by pain and guilt. Screams echoed where thoughts should've been.
I can't—
But I had to.
Because if I didn't… who would?
"Leave them out of this!" I choked out, voice hoarse and trembling. "I won't—"
"Won't what?" Voldemort murmured, silk and shadow. "Defy me? Save them? You don't have the strength. You never did."
My hands hit the floor, useless and blood-slick. My arms shook under the weight of my own body. Every breath was a struggle. I was breaking. Bleeding. And utterly cornered.
"You want to protect them?" he asked again, soft as a hiss, like a snake brushing through dry leaves. "Then give me your loyalty, Harry. Your submission. And perhaps I'll let them live."
I closed my eyes.
There it was—the offer.
A way out. An end to the pain. Maybe even a future if I gave him what he wanted.
But what would be left of me if I did?
If I gave in now—if I handed him even a sliver of my soul—what was I?
I breathed in, shallow and shaking, lungs rasping like torn parchment. He wanted obedience. He wanted me to bow.
But I still had defiance.
As long as I had that—as long as I had them, living in my memories, in my heart—he hadn't won.
Not yet.
My chest heaved, every inhale scraping like broken glass. Sweat stung my eyes. My body was in ruins—bruised, torn, soaked in blood and shame—but it wasn't the physical pain that hurt the most.
It was the doubt.
It crept in quietly, not like a strike, but like rot. The kind that sits with you, whispering when everything else has gone still.
What if he's right?
What if I can't save them?
What if fighting is only delaying the inevitable?
What if… I'm making everything worse?
The guilt cut deeper than the Dark Mark ever could.
I saw their faces again. Ron, shouting at me to run. Hermione, eyes wild with fear, casting shaky spells just to keep me standing. Ginny—Merlin, Ginny—her hand outstretched, tears streaking her face, eyes locked on mine as everything around us crumbled.
They were always suffering because of me. Always bleeding. Always breaking. Voldemort didn't need to guess—he knew. He felt every crack in me like his own triumph.
And I hated him for that.
But worse—I hated how easy it would be to give him what he wanted.
My lips twitched, parted. The word—yes—pressed against them like it belonged there. Just one word. One surrender. That was all it would take. And maybe, if I gave him that, he'd stop. Spare them. End this nightmare.
But he wouldn't.
Even if I gave in, he'd hurt them anyway. He'd find a way to twist it. He always did. He'd take my surrender and use it like a knife, turning it back on me again and again until I couldn't even remember what I was fighting for.
He'd make me watch.
He'd enjoy breaking me slowly—quietly—until I begged him to end it.
No.
The thought came soft at first. Barely a whisper.
No.
I clung to it, desperate. A thread. A breath.
But it wasn't strong. It was frayed. Thin as a cobweb.
"I can't do this much longer…"
The truth slipped into my thoughts before I could stop it.
"I'm not strong enough…"
Something in me cracked—not loudly, not dramatically. Just… cracked. Like ice underfoot. Quiet and inevitable.
I stared at the floor, at the blood pooling beneath my hand. Red against grey. Vivid and final.
I didn't want to die like this. Alone. Used. Forgotten.
But I didn't want to live like this either.
"Still resisting?" Voldemort's voice coiled back into the silence, cruel and soft, like he already knew the answer. "Even now? After all this?"
I said nothing. I couldn't. My throat had dried up. My mind was a storm of static. My thoughts didn't belong to me anymore. They twisted into his, like vines choking out the light.
"Do you truly believe someone's coming to save you?" he whispered. "How foolish. They're dead, Harry. Or captured. Or cowering. That's what happens to those who love you. That's what happens to those who stand in my way."
I shut my eyes.
And I saw it.
Ron, limp on the ground. Hermione, cut and cornered, still casting, still bleeding. Ginny, pale and still, her hair dark with blood. The DA. The Order. All of them.
Gone.
A sound escaped me—part sob, part snarl, all broken.
I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop it, but the blood smeared across my lips. The pressure made me gag. Bile rose in my throat, bitter and burning. I swallowed it down because there was nothing left. My stomach was empty. My body was spent.
And my mind… was slipping.
Please… not like this.
But something—somewhere—held on.
A flicker. A sliver. The barest shard of light buried beneath the wreckage of everything else.
Hermione's face—frightened but steady—as she told me I was brave.
Ginny's hand in mine after the battle at the Ministry—warm, real, grounding.
Dumbledore's voice, calm even in chaos, as though he could see beyond the fear.
"It is our choices, Harry…"
I bit down on my tongue—hard. Copper flooded my mouth. The pain cut through the fog.
A choice. That's what this still was.
Even now. Even here. Even like this—half-mad, half-dead—I could choose.
That was something he couldn't take. Not with the Cruciatus. Not with the Mark. Not with all the monsters he could shove into my mind.
"I don't belong to you," I whispered, barely a breath. My voice trembled and cracked, but it was mine.
Silence.
Then—
"Don't you?"
His voice slithered in, low and dangerous, like a blade wrapped in silk. "I know your mind, Harry. I know your guilt. Your shame. I know what keeps you awake. And you think that makes you different from me?" A breath of mockery, cold and close. "You are mine. Whether you admit it or not."
"No…" My forehead touched the cold stone, grounding me. Anchoring me. "You don't own me."
"You carry my mark," he hissed, all venom. "You feel my will inside your bones. You scream when I choose it. You break when I allow it. You are already mine."
"No."
It hurt to say. Like the word itself was tearing out of something buried deep inside me. But I said it again, even softer, more certain.
"No."
And again.
"No!"
The last tore out of me, hoarse and broken and real. It echoed through the stone cell like something alive.
Not strong. Not brave.
But mine.
I was still me.
Still Harry.
Still here.
Even if I was on the floor, wrecked and shaking and soaked in blood—I hadn't given in.
Not yet.
Silence dropped. It wasn't just around me—it was in me. For one still second, my defiance was louder than him.
"Interesting," Voldemort murmured. His voice oozed back into my skull, colder now. Slower. "Let's see how long that bravery lasts… when tested."
Terror gripped me again, colder than before. Like ice in my lungs.
"What are you—" I tried to say, but my voice broke, fracturing down the middle.
And then the world shattered.
Pain ripped through me—not pain in the body, but pain in the soul. My thoughts twisted, my vision warped, and then—
I was somewhere else.
Not me. Not just me.
Him.
Voldemort.
I was inside him.
Dragged into his skin, into his eyes, into his sick, twisted mind.
The Great Hall stretched out before me, wrong and unfamiliar in the flickering torchlight. Shadows writhed like snakes on the stone. The long tables were full—but silent. Breathless. Every face turned to us.
And there, at the centre of the hall, on the cold stone floor—Colin Creevey.
He was kneeling. Shaking. Small. Wandless.
Defenceless.
My chest clenched—Harry's chest—but I wasn't in it. I couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even shut my eyes.
I felt Voldemort's breath in my lungs. Felt the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. I felt it—that sick, rotting thrill he got from watching someone squirm.
And I couldn't stop it.
"Do you see him, Harry?" The words came from my mouth—but they weren't mine. They rolled out smooth and thick and poisoned, like smoke curling around the rafters. "This little Muggle-born thought he was safe. He believed the Chosen One would protect him."
Laughter.
His laughter.
Cold. Hollow. Inhuman.
Worse than pain. Worse than the mark. It echoed through me like the sound of a grave slamming shut.
And I was still trapped. Still watching.
Still feeling it.
I couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't stop what was coming next.
"Let him go!" I shouted, the words ricocheting uselessly inside my skull. "Please! He's done nothing! He's just a kid!"
But Voldemort didn't listen. Of course he didn't.
He only ever listened to himself.
"Look at his face," he whispered, almost lovingly. "The fear. Do you feel it, Harry? Can you taste it? This—" his voice sharpened, venom laced in every syllable "—this is what failure looks like. This is what it means to be you."
My body shook—his body—but I felt every tremor as if it were mine. I wanted to break free. To tear myself out of his mind. To throw myself between them.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't blink. Couldn't scream.
Voldemort raised his hand.
It didn't even look human. Skin stretched too thin over bone, knuckles like knobs of carved stone. His wand gleamed in that awful torchlight. Every movement was slow. Deliberate. Vicious.
"Shall I teach you what pain truly is?" he murmured. "One by one, every Muggle-born will fall. Unless you surrender. Their blood will mark your failure. Their screams will write your legacy."
He turned to Colin like he was nothing. Less than nothing. Not even a person. Just a name to carve into a list.
"Let him be the example. Let them all see how powerless you really are."
My heart pounded in my chest—my real chest, wherever it was. I could barely breathe. My thoughts spun out in every direction, unravelling.
"Don't—please don't—" I begged. "You don't have to do this—!"
But Voldemort didn't answer. Or maybe he did. Maybe his silence was the answer.
His mouth curved into a slow, thin smile. "Cruelty is necessary. Power is truth. And you still haven't learnt that."
His wand twitched.
Colin gasped.
And then he screamed.
It was unbearable. High, raw, ripped straight from the soul. The kind of scream that stayed with you long after the sound had stopped.
"No!" I cried out. "Please, stop! I'll do anything—just—don't—"
But Voldemort didn't stop.
He never stops.
"Obey me," he hissed, cold and certain. "Or your precious Gryffindor Mudblood dies next."
My breath caught. My heart stuttered.
Hermione.
He meant Hermione.
"What do you want from me?!" I shouted, panic clawing through the fog, through the numbness. "What do you want?!"
He tilted his head, mockery painted across his face. "Just come to the Great Hall, Harry."
His voice was light. Cheerful. Playful.
That made it worse. So much worse.
"Surely that's not too much to ask?"
I felt him again—in me—rummaging through my thoughts, tearing through memories. Pulling out faces. People I'd die to protect. People he'd kill to punish me.
"Why?" I choked out. "Why do you want me there? What are you going to do?!"
He laughed.
It wasn't human. It didn't belong in the world. It sounded like something that should've stayed buried.
"You'll never know if you stay away," he whispered, eyes locked on Colin again. "Unless, of course, you need more convincing."
Colin was still on his knees. Shaking. Barely upright.
And I knew.
If I didn't go—if I didn't submit—he'd kill him.
He might already have.
I tried to wake up. Tried to claw myself free from this vision, this possession, this nightmare.
But it wasn't a dream.
It was real.
And all I could do was watch.
But then it stopped, and I was back to my own self.
Footsteps echoed beyond the door—slow, deliberate, like whoever it was wanted me to hear every step. My heart thudded so loud it drowned everything else out. The dungeon's cold crept through my skin, right into the bone. But it wasn't the chill making me shake.
It was what I knew was coming.
The door creaked open.
Malfoy. Again.
He stepped inside like he belonged there. Like this place—this sick, rotting excuse for a stronghold—was his. His lips curled into that same smug sneer he'd always worn like a shield. It used to irritate me. Now it made bile rise in my throat.
"Do you see now the cost of your disobedience?" he asked, voice smooth, precise. Rehearsed. Like he'd practised that line a dozen times in a mirror just to get the angle right.
I stared at him. My fists clenched, knuckles white and trembling. I shoved the fury down, forcing it to stay just beneath the surface.
"Do you see what happens when you betray the only thing worth fighting for?" I growled. My voice was low, scraped raw—but it was still mine.
For a moment—just a flicker—I saw something in his face shift. Doubt? Regret? Pain? I couldn't be sure. Maybe I imagined it. Whatever it was, he buried it fast. Back behind that polished mask he always wore when he was pretending not to care.
"You still don't understand," he said, like I was some clueless child. "This isn't bravery. It's stupidity. You think dying for a cause makes you noble? It makes you weak."
I wanted to reply, but my throat was too raw. The words stuck—half-formed, twisted between rage and exhaustion. He lifted a hand like he couldn't even be bothered to hear me try again.
"Save your breath," he said, his voice like frost on glass. "We've wasted enough time. Crabbe. Goyle."
They entered like beasts, too large for the space. Shadows with fists. Their eyes were empty—nothing behind them but blind obedience. They each grabbed an arm, rough and careless, like they were touching rubbish. I didn't resist. Not because I couldn't—because I'd learnt that some battles aren't won with fists. Some you lose just by standing.
They dragged me forward, half-lifting, half-shoving. I stumbled and caught myself. Didn't fall. Just kept moving. Down, down, deeper into the dark.
The stairs spiralled lower, the air growing thicker. The walls pressed closer. Damp. Stale. It felt like the castle itself was swallowing me.
A prison beneath a prison.
One of them shoved me mid-step, sniggering like it was all a joke. I caught myself with a grunt; I didn't turn. Didn't give them the pleasure.
Behind me, Malfoy's voice cut through the air like a curse. "The only reason you're still breathing is because they think you're useful. But keep testing that theory—and see how long it holds."
The room we entered next twisted everything further.
The Slytherin common room.
Immediately, the pressure hit. Like walking into something alive. Something waiting. The green-tinged light pulsed across the stone floor, casting long, warped shadows. It made everything look sick. Tainted.
All eyes turned to me.
Dozens of them.
Cold. Unblinking. Hungry.
Some faces I knew—Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and others whose names didn't matter. All of them watched like spectators at an execution. Like they'd been waiting for this.
"Filth," someone muttered.
"Potter stinks," another said, voice thick with hate.
Every word landed like a slap. I didn't flinch. But my hands curled tighter. My whole body shook with the effort of staying upright, of not throwing myself at them just to do something.
I kept walking. Kept my head down—not out of fear, but because I couldn't bear to look at them. Couldn't stand seeing how much joy they took in it. In me like this.
They parted, reluctantly, like I was diseased.
Crabbe shoved me hard between the shoulder blades. Goyle grunted when I staggered. Every few steps they reminded me I wasn't allowed to stop. Their fingers bruised. I bit down hard, tasted blood, swallowed the sound.
And then—
I was out.
Out of that room. Out of those eyes.
But not out of danger.
Never that.
The moment the door closed behind me, I could breathe again—but it wasn't relief. Not even close. It was panic, stripped raw, dressed up as freedom. My legs kept moving, though every step felt like walking blindfolded into a snare. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I couldn't stop.
Hogwarts didn't feel like Hogwarts anymore.
The corridors stretched too long, twisted wrong, like the castle itself was warped. The torches barely lit anything—just hints, flickers, not enough to trust. Shadows moved even when I didn't. The walls felt closer than they should've. Like they were leaning in.
My eyes were useless—burning, dry, too damaged to rely on. Everything looked like a smear.
Sometimes I saw movement. A shape. A swish of fabric.
And every time, my stomach turned to stone. Was it a Death Eater? A student? Just my mind playing tricks? I didn't know. Couldn't trust anything. Not even I.
This place that had once been home now felt like it was watching me.
Every footstep echoed like a countdown.
As we climbed the stairs towards the upper corridors, pain began to pulse behind my scar. Not the sharp jab I'd felt before—not that clean, white-hot stab I recognised as Voldemort's proximity. No, this was worse. Slower. Heavier.
Like molten iron had been poured into my veins, curling up into my skull, branding me from the inside.
Every breath scraped against it. Every step drove it deeper.
Still, I kept going.
Pain didn't matter. Not now. Not when Colin was still bleeding somewhere above. Not when Hermione could be next.
I whispered to myself, "Move. Just move. Run, crawl, or crawl if you have to."
But the pain didn't wait.
By the time I hit the middle of the staircase leading up to the Great Hall, my knees gave out. I staggered, one hand grabbing for the wall, the other clutching at my skull like I could physically hold my head together. My vision split. The world tilted. My body folded in on itself.
My knees slammed into the stone. Hands splayed out to keep me upright, but barely. My whole body trembled.
And the pain—
Merlin, the pain—
It wasn't just pain. It was a violation. Like claws had sunk into the back of my mind and were tearing forward, shredding thought, memory, and identity. I bit down hard to stop myself from screaming.
Failed.
The sound that ripped from me wasn't human. It was raw, broken—helpless. It echoed up and down the corridor, a sound that belonged to prey.
My breathing went shallow. I couldn't think. Couldn't speak. Just pain and fire, and the dizzying sense that everything about me was being unmade.
And then—
A voice.
Cool. Precise. Drenched in cruel amusement.
"Nice of you to announce yourself, Potter."
Snape.
Of course.
I didn't need to look. That voice could cut through steel. Even through agony, I recognised it.
He was already striding towards me. I caught him in the corner of my vision—those familiar black robes sweeping across the stone, like a shadow had broken loose and decided to walk.
But something about him was off.
He looked—tighter. Sharper. His expression was colder than usual, but not empty. There was a storm brewing behind it. One he wasn't letting anyone see.
"Leave us," he snapped. The command cracked across the corridor like a whip.
Malfoy flinched.
"But we're supposed to take him to the Great Hall—"
Snape turned on him, glare like a thrown blade. "And here we are," he said, voice low and deadly. "Now go. Back to your dormitory. All of you."
Malfoy hesitated. And for the first time, I saw it: fear.
He wasn't used to this version of Snape. This wasn't his co-conspirator. This was something else entirely—dangerous and unpredictable.
He exchanged a quick glance with Crabbe and Goyle before backing off. No more words. Just the echo of their retreating footsteps.
Then it was quiet.
Just Snape. And me.
Alone.
The silence pressed in like weight.
I stayed where I was, curled in on myself, hands still shaking, knees folded tight. My arms wrapped around my middle like I could stop myself falling apart.
I didn't look up. Couldn't.
The stone floor was the only thing that felt real. The only thing holding me together.
"Potter," said Snape. Firm. Controlled. Not yet angry—but close.
I didn't answer. Didn't even blink. My fingers drifted to my left arm, brushing over the skin there—bare and exposed, thanks to the thin, short sleeves of my threadbare shirt. I hated how vulnerable it made me feel. Like I was on display. Like I was his.
"Potter," he said again, sharper now. Clipped. Impatient.
Still, I said nothing. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. My jaw was locked. My gaze was fixed on a crack in the stone. I bit hard on the inside of my cheek. Anything to keep from speaking.
"Potter!" he barked, louder this time. His boots struck the flagstones—slow, deliberate steps that echoed like warnings.
I tensed as he stopped beside me.
I could feel him watching. Measuring. Waiting.
Then he crouched. Slowly, carefully—lowering himself to my level. I heard the shift of fabric, the faintest breath drawn between clenched teeth. His voice dropped. "Pot—"
He stopped.
Silence crashed in, sudden and thick.
I risked a glance. And saw exactly what had silenced him.
His eyes were fixed on my arm.
The Mark.
The Dark Mark, etched into my skin like it had always belonged there. Black as ink, stark against the pallor of my skin. It looked… permanent. Brutal. Like a brand seared through flesh and bone.
His face didn't change. Not much. But something in his posture went still.
The shame hit me hard. Cold. Clean. Unforgiving.
I should've covered it. Should've pulled my sleeve down. But I didn't.
I let him look.
Let him see it.
Let the weight of it settle in the space between us.
My chest burnt with something too messy to name. Rage. Guilt. Grief. A tight, tangled snarl of everything I'd tried to bury.
I met his eyes.
Dead on.
"What's the matter, Snape?" I said. My voice was low, cracked with fury. "Do you like it?"
He said nothing.
My mouth twisted into something that might've been a smile. But it was bitter. Ugly. Empty.
"Is this what you wanted?" I said. "Watching your master burn it into me like I'm some stray dog he finally decided to claim?"
Still nothing.
He didn't look away. But his eyes didn't move either. Locked. Blank. Trained on the Mark.
"Go on, then," I said. "Take it in. You helped him, didn't you? You made this happen. All of it."
And still—no answer.
Something inside me cracked.
All that grief, that fury, that betrayal—it surged up, wild and sharp, demanding a target.
"Do you see now?" I said. "Everything he's taken. Everything you've let him take."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was loaded. With everything I couldn't say. Everything he refused to.
And I hated him for it.
Snape's face was stone. No flicker of guilt. No twitch of regret. Just that same impassive stare he always wore like a shield. Like armour built not to protect himself—but to keep everyone else out.
His eyes locked with mine—deep, dark, unreadable.
And I hated how exposed I felt under that gaze.
Then he looked down again. At the Mark.
I saw his jaw tighten. Barely. But it was enough.
When his eyes came back to mine, it was like he wasn't seeing me at all—just a reflection of something else. Something broken.
"I don't understand how you could betray him," I said, voice shaking. "He trusted you. He believed in you when no one else did. And you—you killed him."
My throat closed.
My fists clenched.
"He gave everything to this school. To us. And you—what did you do? You destroyed it. You destroyed him. And now you're just… here. Like you belong."
I looked at him, trembling.
"You don't."
Snape didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Then, in a voice like cold steel: "Be silent."
It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.
The words cut through the air like a blade. And something in me disobeyed before I could stop it. Habit. Instinct. Fear. I didn't know which.
But it didn't matter.
Because the fire didn't go out.
It just got hotter.
"No," I said. My voice was low. Fierce. "I'm not staying quiet anymore."
I thrust my arm towards him.
The mark pulsed—dark and angry—against my skin.
"Look at it," I growled. "Is this what you wanted?"
My voice cracked.
"Is this what it was all for? Voldemort. Dumbledore. Everything. Everything is falling apart. You helped him. We trustedyou."
I was shaking now.
"And this is where we ended up."
Then his voice slipped in—quiet, curling around my thoughts like smoke.
"Yes, that's right, Harry," Voldemort whispered. Soft. Almost amused. "Snape is a traitor to both sides, isn't he? Always playing games. Always pretending he knows what's best."
The cold of him slithered through my skull, winding tighter with every word. My scar burnt—first sharp, then searing—like a white-hot blade being driven straight through my forehead.
"Get out," I rasped. My hand flew to the scar, pressing hard as if I could smother him, pressing him out with sheer force. "Get out of my head!"
But of course he didn't listen.
He never did.
"You've always wanted to strike him, haven't you?" Voldemort hissed. "From the very beginning. You never trusted him. And you were right."
The pain surged like fire licking through my brain. I staggered, blinded, breath hitching in my chest. My thoughts were coming undone, splitting apart as his voice slithered deeper, slipping through the cracks like poison.
Stop. Please. Just stop.
My fists clenched at my sides. I was shaking all over. Every nerve screamed. But I didn't fall. Not yet.
Snape was already moving.
He'd seen it—seen the Mark on my arm flare, seen Voldemort tighten his grip on my mind. His hand clamped down on my opposite arm. Firm. Cold. Unshakeable.
No questions. No hesitation. That wasn't Snape.
He hauled me up—quick, rough, like tearing me from something toxic.
I tried to fight it. Tried to speak. But the words caught, strangled somewhere between my throat and the fire in my head. My knees gave way. The world dipped and reeled.
The only reason I didn't hit the stone was because Snape held me fast. His grip didn't loosen. Not once. It was like he didn't care how much it hurt. Or maybe he did—but he dragged me anyway.
The doors to the Great Hall rose up ahead of us like a sentence passed.
Tall. Cold. Unforgiving.
They didn't look like they used to. Not like a welcome. Not even like safety.
They looked like the entrance to a tomb.
And behind them—waiting—was everything.
Voldemort. The Death Eaters. The truth.
It was too much.
My chest clenched tight. My lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves.
I wasn't ready.
I wasn't strong enough.
I couldn't do this.
My steps faltered. My legs were rubber. My vision blurred at the edges, flashes of light and shadow bleeding through. The pain in my scar clawed deeper, brighter. The mark on my arm felt like it was on fire, searing up through the bone. I was coming apart—one piece at a time.
Snape didn't say a word.
He never did.
But his hand stayed. Unmoving. Unyielding. He didn't let me go. Not once.
He didn't ask me if I could stand.
He didn't ask if I wanted to go on.
He just held me there.
Held me up.
And I froze.
Right there. Stuck between the fire in my mind and the cold in his grasp.
And still, he didn't wait.
Didn't offer comfort. Or pity.
He shoved me forward.
Firm. Final.
The great doors groaned as they opened, slow and ancient.
The world beyond them tilted—warped by memory, by fear, and by pain.
And everything slowed.