What Lies Ahead

Eight

The air was stale, a mixture of mildew and damp earth, making it hard to breathe. The rough rock walls that encased the room were darkened by condensation as the days grew warmer, thawing the ground from the long winter months. Around the cavernous room were barrels of what seemed to be fine whiskeys aging to perfection. They had been pushed along the walls, making space in the center of the room; space for the young boy who had been hanging there for nearly two days.

Harry's stomach groaned with hunger for the millionth time that day. It had been ages since his last proper meal and he was beginning to think he would die of starvation long before anything else. Rising to his tip-toes, he stretched his hands up to rub the raw skin beneath the iron shackles, soothing the ache, if only for a minute.

Lucius had been thoroughly cruel in his execution of Voldemort's orders. He had dragged Harry to the cellar and hung him just high enough for the tips of his toes to reach the ground. If Harry got tired, which was quite often, he would hang by his wrists, swaying from side to side. The shackles were loose enough that they slid easily along the wrists but caught snuggly at the hand. He could possibly break his thumbs and slip out, but even if he had enough nerve to do so, he couldn't get the leverage.

Yawning, Harry blinked several times trying to chase the urge to sleep from his heavy eyelids. He had dozed off several times while dangling from the end of his chains, only to wake up stiff armed and aching all over. It was after one of these short naps that he had heard the commotion upstairs. The sound of a dozen muffled footsteps, pleading,  screaming; all of these had floated down to the cellar about an hour ago. He had counted himself lucky for being able to get any rest.

Without warning, his legs gave way and he snapped to the end of the chain. The cuffs caught him at the base of his hand, cold iron cutting into the already raw flesh. A yell rose from somewhere deep in his chest, a mixture of pain and pure frustration at the situation he found himself in. Looking up, he could see the dark red blood beginning to streak from underneath the shackles, rolling slowly towards his filth covered jumper.

"Great," he said to the empty room. "Just bloody great."

"Something wrong, Potter?"

Harry's head snapped up to see Voldemort standing in the door, his arms crossed casually against his chest. He had changed out of the jumper and was now wearing a dark green tweed waistcoat over a white button-down shirt and matching breeches. His hair had also been combed to perfection, and Harry could easily see the resemblance he still held to his younger self.

The sudden movement caused the metal to rub against the fresh wounds on Harry's wrists, and he let out a growl of annoyance to cover the cry of pain.  Quickly, he rose to his tip-toes in order to still his movements.

"You've made your point," Harry snapped irritably.

"And what point is that," asked Voldemort. He shut the door behind him softly before moving closer to the boy. His red eyes traveled up from the snarled face to the blood-smeared shackles, a smile pulling at his lips. "Lucius was particularly thorough with attention to detail, wasn't he?" He reached a pale hand up and ran his cool fingers along the chaffed skin, apparently admiring the work. He was so close now that Harry could smell the whiskey on his breath.

Instinctively, Harry tried to pull away; instead, his foot slipped against the smooth stone and he fell again. The jolt to his hand brought out a stream of curses as he tried to regain his footing.

Voldemort chuckled softly. "Need a hand," he asked, grabbing the front of Harry's maroon sweater to stop his swinging. "It is apparent I have not made my point just yet."

"What do you want," Harry implored but even he could hear the exasperation in his tone.

A hard slap connected with his jaw and the cellar walls spun as he was knocked off his feet once more. He gave up his futile attempts to stop his momentum and he swayed back and forth at the end of the chain, rotating his jaw to relieve the ache.

Voldemort was still standing in the same spot, his face completely emotionless. He raised his eyebrows and let his eyes follow Harry back and forth, waiting for the best moment to speak again.

Harry opened his mouth, ready to say something he knew would regret, but the hand struck him again. Stars blossomed before his eyes and he could taste the acrid tang of cooper ooze between his teeth. He cautiously ran his tongue along the back molars, checking to be sure none were missing. When he found them intact, he bared his crimson-stained teeth in a furious grimace.

"You.. " he began in a low growl but a third strike collided, cutting him short. He coughed out the blood that was now collecting rapidly in his throat, gagging him.  Taking in several steadying breaths through his nose, he looked pointedly at the floor, understanding finally washing over him.  Voldemort wanted him to cooperate.

"There's a good boy," Voldemort said with a smile. "Now, are you going to watch your tongue?"

Harry sucked the blood from his teeth, refusing to answer. He would rather keep quiet than agree to be peaceful. At least this way he could retain some of his dignity.

Snap! The sound of open palm meeting flesh rang through the room and Harry felt the sting rush across his already reddening cheek. Anger coursed through him like poison, corrupting any of his remaining sensibility.

"Do you want me to bloody talk or not?"

This earned him a full-on closed-fist punch that landed directly on his cheekbone. The force sent him spinning and his glasses slipped to the edge of his nose.

"We can do this all night, Potter," Voldemort said impassively.

Reclaiming his bearings, Harry tipped his head back, allowing his glasses to slide to the bridge of his nose. He could feel the swelling already forming on his face and the bone-deep ache that accompanied it.

"Are you ready to cooperate?"

Harry swallowed against the snappy response and instead gave a short nod. He could see Voldemort's eyebrows raise again and his hand splay, readying for another hit. Quickly, Harry gave a reluctant "yes".

Smiling triumphantly, Voldemort gave the wand a wave and the chain holding Harry to the ceiling lowered until he was able to stand flat-footed on the floor. The relief to his aching hands was immediate and splendid. He stretched his arms up, letting the cuffs slide away from the shallow gashes they had made; thick droplets of blood were still welling up along the lacerations.

"I'm going to be quite honest with you, Potter," Voldemort said, clasping his hand behind his back. "I have given it some thought and I can find no real use for you. You have already refused to join my followers and letting you live is far too dangerous."

Harry's stomach turned, it seemed a violent creature was now trying to claw it's way out. Was he about to die? Would this small dungeon be the last thing that he saw?

"Your execution is set for tomorrow," he continued nonchalantly as if discussing an itinerary. "However, I do have one more use for you." A malicious grin pulled at the corners of his thin mouth.

Over Voldemort's shoulder, the cellar door opened, revealing a man hidden by a silver mask. The newcomer closed the door and stepped forward, stopping several paces behind Voldemort. He stood tall, awaiting his orders.

Voldemort gave Harry one last look before turning to greet the man. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he sauntered over until he was standing directly behind him.

"This is how you prove your loyalty. Go ahead and remove your mask, Severus."

Harry's jaw fell slack ad he turned his attention back to the man who was now removing the metal covering his face. The look of loathing those coal-black eyes were giving him was all too familiar.