Malfoy's back disappeared through the door, the heavy slam echoing in my ears like a final blow. He'd locked me in, just like that. I wanted to hex him, hurt him—anything to wipe that smug look off his face. The idea thrilled me for a moment… until the Dark Mark on my arm flared up, sharp and burning. It was a quiet warning, a reminder of who was really in charge. Voldemort didn't even have to be here to make me feel it. His voice seemed to whisper in the back of my mind, cold and inescapable. The curse always found a way to reach me.
I couldn't fight back. Not really. Not without paying for it. I'd learnt that already. Every bit of resistance was punished, painfully and thoroughly. The burning in my arm grew stronger just thinking about it. I wasn't free—I was a puppet on a string, and Voldemort was the one holding the string tight.
I dropped to my knees in front of my trunk and started tearing through it, tossing out old books and crumpled clothes. Useless junk. My wand was still gone—I hadn't seen it since last night. That loss hit me harder than I wanted to admit. I missed it—the way it fit perfectly in my hand, the power it gave me. Without it, I felt exposed. Weak. And with every throb of the Dark Mark, that helpless feeling just got worse.
"Think, Harry, think," I muttered, heart pounding as I dug deeper. I needed something—anything—that could help if things went bad. And they always did. The thought of what might be coming made my stomach twist, but fear wasn't useful now. I had to focus.
My eyes landed on an old schoolbook. It wasn't much, but I grabbed it anyway, clinging to the absurd hope that it might help. I ran to the window, lifted it above my head, and hurled it at the glass.
"Break! Please—just break!"
It didn't. The book bounced off the enchanted glass and hit the stone floor with a dull thud. The window shimmered slightly, its protection still strong. Of course it was. I laughed, short and bitter. What else could I do? Everything about this was ridiculous.
I dropped back down beside my trunk, the cold from the floor seeping through my clothes. My hands were shaking as I kept digging, more frantic now, searching for something—anything—to take the edge off the pain. My whole arm felt like it was on fire. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
The mark writhed under my skin, like it was alive. The serpent twisted and curled, black lines pulsing with every heartbeat. Pain stabbed through my arm, sharp and unbearable, over and over again. I let out a sound—half-whimper, half-gasp—that made me hate myself. I sounded broken. Weak.
That's what I was now, wasn't I? No wand. No power. Just a boy on the floor, hiding from pain he couldn't stop. The humiliation burnt nearly as much as the curse. I'd sworn I wouldn't let them see me like this. But it was too late. I was already crumbling.
I stayed on the floor, breathing hard. The pain in my arm wasn't easing up. It kept pulsing, like a heartbeat made of fire. My hand hovered over it, useless. Touching it only made it worse. Not touching it left me feeling helpless. There was no winning.
The silence in the room stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Every second felt like an hour. I was waiting—for the next wave of pain, for the door to open, for Voldemort's voice to fill the room. Waiting for something terrible. Because something always came.
I pressed my forehead against the edge of the trunk, trying to ground myself. The cold wood steadied me, if only for a moment. I needed to stay calm. I needed to think. But the more I tried, the more my thoughts spun out of control.
What if this was it? What if no one came? What if I were stuck here, trapped with this cursed mark, this burning nightmare, until Voldemort decided I was no longer useful?
A shiver ran through me. I didn't want to die like this—alone, powerless, curled up on the floor like some broken thing.
I dragged myself away from the trunk and leaned against the wall, staring at the door Malfoy had slammed shut. My eyes burnt, but I refused to cry. I'd cried enough. It never helped.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture something—anything—that didn't hurt. Ron's laugh. Hermione's voice, calm and sure. Ginny's hand in mine. The sound of the Burrow at dinner, loud and warm and full of life.
It helped… for a moment. Then the Mark flared again, cutting through the memory like a blade.
I bit down hard on my lip, choking back another cry. I wasn't going to scream. Not again.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps outside the door. Slow, deliberate. They stopped just beyond the threshold. My heart jumped into my throat.
Please not him. Not now.
A shadow passed beneath the gap in the door. Then silence.
My breath caught. I didn't move. Didn't dare. The silence stretched again, thicker now, like the calm before a storm.
Then the door creaked. Not opening—just shifting slightly, as if someone had placed a hand against it.
I braced myself.
Nothing.
The footsteps moved away, fading into the distance.
I let out a shaky breath and slumped forward. My whole body was trembling now, every nerve stretched thin. I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up.
But I had to. I didn't have a choice.
And then, his voice came.
"Do you want more pain, Harry?"
Voldemort's voice slithered straight into my head, smooth and cold, like a snake slipping beneath my skin. The words echoed behind my eyes, bypassing my ears entirely. I wasn't sure whether it was my scar or the burning in my arm that gave him access. Maybe both. Maybe there was nowhere left he couldn't reach.
Then came the laugh. That cruel, hollow sound I'd heard in nightmares and graveyards. It clawed down my spine like icy nails. My arm blazed, heat searing into my skin, but somehow his laughter felt worse. Like it didn't care if I broke or burnt—it only wanted to watch.
"I don't mind giving it," he said smoothly. "Again. And again."
I said nothing. I wouldn't. My throat tightened, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. It felt like the air had turned thick, poisoned by his presence. Every heartbeat drummed against my skull. My scar pulsed, an echo of his nearness. We were connected—by magic, by fate, or by some sick joke the universe had made of my life.
I hated it. Hated him. But hate wasn't enough. Hate didn't make the fear go away.
"Oh? Silent now?" he said mockingly. "Do you think that makes you strong? That your silence will save you?" A pause. Then a cruel little scoff. "Foolish boy. You can't fight me. You never could. Your resistance—it's amusing, but temporary. The pain you feel is just your own stupidity."
I looked down and clenched my jaw until it ached, determined not to show him anything—no flinch, no whimper, no fear. But it was there. It always was. He was in my mind. In my blood. His voice coiled around my thoughts like a noose, ready to tighten the second I slipped.
He was winning.
"I can make the pain stop," he said, softly now, like he was offering a gift. "Just obey me. That's all it takes."
It would've been easier, wouldn't it? To say yes. To give in. Stop the burning, stop the screaming, stop feeling so broken. But I couldn't. Not when everyone I loved was still out there. Still counting on me. Still fighting.
I shook my head.
"Never," I told myself. I wouldn't let him take that, too.
The fire in my arm flared, licking down to my fingertips, and I grabbed it tightly. My fingers dug in, nails biting flesh, but I didn't care. The pain grounded me. Reminded me that I was still me. Still Harry. Still fighting.
My grip tightened until my knuckles turned white. But the magic inside the mark was wild now, pulsing harder with every beat of my heart. I couldn't contain it. Couldn't smother it.
He laughed again—low and terrible—and then something twisted. The pain wasn't just heat now. It was tearing. Searing. My arm split open, and blood poured down to my wrist, warm and slick. My fingers trembled, stained red. I screamed—raw, ugly, loud—falling to the floor as my legs gave out beneath me. The cold stone didn't help. It only reminded me how alone I was.
I curled up, hugging my arm to my chest, blood smearing across my shirt. I wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to open and swallow me whole. I couldn't do this. Not again. Not alone.
"You'll obey me," Voldemort said, calm as ever. "It's who you are. You've always bent to someone's will. Your muggle relatives. Dumbledore. And now, me."
My chest rose and fell, fast and uneven. His words struck something deeper than pain—something worse. I hated how true they sounded.
Had I always followed orders? First the Dursleys, then school rules, then Dumbledore's cryptic plans. Even now, I wasn't sure if I was doing anything because I believed in it or because someone told me to. Was I really that easy to control?
But not this time.
"No!" I shouted, throat raw. "Don't you dare. Don't talk about them!"
His laugh was softer this time, quieter—but it crawled into my ears and stayed there, like a beetle burrowing into my brain. I winced, clenching my eyes shut, but it didn't help.
"Defying me only brings suffering," he said, circling me like a predator. "So many of your precious friends are just steps away from ruin. Wouldn't it be a pity if something happened to your dear little school?"
My hands curled into fists. Rage boiled in my chest, but fear coiled just beneath it, choking it off. He meant it. He'd do it. And he knew how much it would break me.
Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.
How many times had I almost gotten them killed already?
I wasn't strong enough to keep them safe. I knew that. I'd known it since Sirius. Since the Department of Mysteries. Since the day I watched Dumbledore fall from that tower and couldn't do a bloody thing about it.
"Enough!" I shouted. My voice bounced off the walls, swallowed by the dark. It sounded small. Weak.
"You're already trapped, Harry," he whispered. "Not just here. Inside your own mind. How easily I twist the knife. Tell me… do you truly care about their safety?" He leaned closer—I felt it, even if I couldn't see him. "Or do you just want to prove something? To yourself? To me?"
I said nothing.
He didn't need an answer.
"I can show you," he continued, "what happens to those who defy me. You already know, don't you? You've seen it."
And I had.
Ron's face—stunned, confused, overwhelmed. Hermione, trying to stay on her feet, duelling, bleeding, refusing to back down. Ginny—oh God, Ginny—my heart lurched.
"You could save them," Voldemort said. "All you have to do is submit. Their suffering ends. Yours too. Isn't that what you want?"
I dropped to my knees again. My head felt like it would split apart. Images kept flashing—faces, screams, pain—so much pain. I clutched at my hair, pressing my fingers to my temples like I could push him out.
"Leave them out of this!" I cried. "I won't—"
"Won't what?" he murmured. "Defy me? Save them? You don't have the strength. You never did."
My hands dropped to the floor. My body was shaking. I was bleeding, broken, and cornered.
"You want to protect them?" he asked, voice like a snake in the dark. "Then give me your loyalty. And maybe—just maybe—I'll let them live."
I closed my eyes.
I could give in. End the pain. Spare them.
But if I gave him that—if I handed him even a piece of me—what would be left?
I breathed, slow and shaky.
He wanted obedience.
But I still had defiance.
And as long as I had that—as long as I had them—he'd never really win.
My breath hitched again, shallow and uneven. Every inhale scraped like broken glass. My body was wrecked—aching, raw, soaked in sweat and blood. But the worst pain wasn't physical.
It was the doubt.
It crept in, quiet and patient. The kind that whispered when everything else had gone still. What if Voldemort was right? What if I couldn't protect them? What if trying to fight him was just delaying the inevitable?
What if all I was doing… was making things worse?
My thoughts spiralled, chaotic and sharp. I could see their faces again. Ron, confused and desperate, was yelling for me to run. Hermione trying to shield me with trembling hands. Ginny's eyes locked on mine, wide with terror, pleading. Always pleading.
It was my fault. It always was.
Their suffering, their fear, their blood—it clung to me like a second skin. Voldemort knew that. He knew every crack in my armour, and he didn't even have to look to find them. He just knew.
And I hated him for it.
But I hated myself more for how easy it would be to say yes.
My lips trembled, barely parted, like the word wanted to slip out of me without permission. One word. One nod. One surrender. That was all it would take. And maybe, just maybe, he'd leave them alone.
But I couldn't trust him. Even if I gave in, he'd still hurt them. He'd find a way to twist my surrender into another kind of torment. He'd enjoy watching me destroy myself from the inside out—slowly, completely, until there was nothing left of who I used to be.
"No," I thought, gripping the thought like a lifeline. "No."
But the thought wasn't strong. It was thin and frayed. It bent under the weight of the silence around me.
"I can't do this much longer…" The truth slipped into my head before I could stop it. "I'm not strong enough."
Something cracked inside me—not loudly, not all at once. Just a quiet fracture. The kind you only notice when you realise things have already started to break.
I stared at the stone floor beneath me, the blood pooling under my hand. Red on grey. Stark. Final.
I didn't want to die like this.
But I didn't want to live like this either.
"Still resisting?" Voldemort's voice broke the silence again, soft and cruel. "Even now? After all this?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was too dry. My mind was too full of screaming silence.
"Do you really believe that anyone is coming for you?" he asked, almost kindly. "That they'll save you? Don't be foolish. They're either dead, captured, or cowering. That's what happens to those who stand in my way."
I closed my eyes and saw the bodies. Ron. Hermione. Ginny. Neville. The DA. The Order. Everyone.
Lying still. Silent.
Gone.
A sound tore from my throat—half sob, half snarl.
I pressed my bloody hand against my mouth to stop it, but the pressure made me gag. I felt bile rise, bitter and burning. I swallowed it down. There was nothing left to bring up anyway.
My stomach was empty. My body was spent. My mind… almost gone.
But something—somewhere—held on. A tiny shard of light buried beneath all the ruin.
I remembered the look on Hermione's face when she told me I was brave.
I remembered Ginny's hand in mine, warm and solid after the battle at the Ministry.
I remembered Dumbledore's voice, gentle and calm even when the world was falling apart.
"It is our choices, Harry…"
I bit down on my tongue hard enough to draw blood.
A choice. That's what this still was.
No matter how broken I felt, I could still choose. Maybe that was all the strength I had left.
He could rip my body apart. He could flood my mind with every nightmare I'd ever feared. But he couldn't take my choice.
"I don't belong to you," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath.
Silence.
Then—
"Don't you?"
His voice coiled tighter, like a snake ready to strike. "I know your mind, Harry. I know your doubts. Your guilt. Your shame. And you think that makes you different from me? You are mine. Whether you say it or not."
"No…" I pressed my forehead to the cold floor. "You don't own me."
"You carry my mark," he hissed. "You feel my power inside you. You scream when I will it. You break when I choose it. You are already mine."
"No."
The word hurt to say. Like it had thorns. Like it was being torn out of the deepest part of me.
But I said it again.
"No."
And again.
"No!"
I screamed the last one, hoarse and cracking, throat raw. The sound bounced back at me from the stone walls, louder than before. Not brave. Not strong. But mine.
I was still me.
Still Harry.
Still here.
Even if I was on the floor, bleeding and broken and drowning in pain—
I hadn't given in.
Not yet.
Silence dropped, heavy and final. It wasn't just the room—it was inside me too. My defiance had stolen the breath from everything.
"Interesting," Voldemort said, his voice like oil slicking through my mind. My thoughts dimmed, clouded in something cold and poisonous. "Let's see how long that bravery lasts when it's tested, Harry."
Terror gripped me like a fist around my throat. I tried to speak, tried to fight back, but my voice broke in half. "What are you—"
Then the world shattered.
Everything warped. My vision twisted, and I was ripped straight out of myself. A violent lurch, like my soul was being dragged across glass.
And suddenly, I was somewhere else. No—not me. Him. Voldemort.
I was in the Great Hall. The torches flickered low on the walls, casting warped shadows that twisted like things alive. The long tables were full, but no one moved. They were all frozen, breathless, every gaze locked on Voldemort.
And in the centre of the hall, on the bare stone floor, someone knelt.
Colin Creevey.
My chest clenched. He was shaking—small and pale, eyes wide with terror. His wand was gone. His courage was gone. All that was left was fear.
And I was trapped inside the thing, making him feel it.
I couldn't scream. Couldn't run. I couldn't even close my eyes. I was stuck inside Voldemort—paralysed, suffocating. I could feel his breath. I could feel the smile tug at lips that weren't mine. I felt the sick thrill of power he got from watching the boy squirm.
"Do you see him, Harry?" The words came from my mouth, but they weren't mine. His voice oozed out of me, curling around the room like smoke. "This little Muggle-born believed he was safe. That the great Chosen One would protect him."
He laughed, and it was the worst sound I'd ever heard. Cold. Empty. Dead.
"Let him go!" I shouted, but it echoed uselessly inside my skull. "Please! He's done nothing! He's just a kid!"
But Voldemort only listened to himself.
"Look at his face," he whispered. "The fear. Do you feel it, Harry? Can you taste it? This is what failure looks like. This is what it means to be you."
My whole body trembled, even though I didn't have control of it. I wanted to rip myself out of his mind. I wanted to move, to scream, to throw myself between them. But I was trapped—drowning in someone else's skin.
Voldemort raised a hand. His fingers looked like bones wrapped in skin. The wand in his grip gleamed. Slow. Purposeful. Every motion dripping with cruelty.
"Should I teach you a lesson in pain?" he said, his voice low and brutal. "One by one, every Muggle-born will die. Unless you surrender. Their blood will be on your hands, Harry."
He turned toward Colin like the boy wasn't even human. "Let him be the example. Let his death show them all how powerless you really are."
My heart hammered in my chest. I could barely breathe. "Don't—please don't—" My voice was hoarse with desperation. "You don't have to do this!"
Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Cruelty is necessary. Power is truth. And you still haven't learnt that."
His wand twitched.
Colin gasped. His body tensed and shook. His face—so full of fear—looked up at me. Not Voldemort. Me. Like somewhere, deep down, he still hoped I could stop it.
"Please, Harry!" Colin cried. "Help!"
And then Colin screamed in pain.
It was the worst thing I'd ever heard.
"No!" I screamed. "Please, stop! I'll do anything—just don't—"
But Voldemort didn't hear me. Or maybe he did and just didn't care.
"Obey me," he hissed. "Or your precious Gryffindor mudblood dies next."
My stomach twisted. My blood turned to ice. He meant Hermione.
"What do you want from me?!" I cried, panic breaking through the numbness. "What do you want?!"
He tilted his head, mocking. "Just come to the Great Hall, Harry."
His tone was light, almost playful. It made my skin crawl.
"Surely that's not too much to ask?"
I could feel him in my thoughts, sifting through them. Pulling out faces. People I loved. People he could hurt.
"Why?" I choked. "Why do you want me there? What are you going to do?"
He laughed again. It sounded like something rotting.
"You'll never know if you stay away," he whispered. "Unless you need convincing."
He looked back at Colin. The boy was trembling, barely able to stay upright.
And I knew—if I didn't go, he'd kill him.
He already might.
I wanted to wake up. I wanted to tear this vision from my skull. But it wasn't a dream.
And I couldn't do anything but watch.
Footsteps echoed outside the door—slow, deliberate, like they wanted me to hear every one. My heart thudded so loud it drowned out everything else. The cold in the dungeon cut straight to the bone, but it wasn't just the cold making me shake.
The door creaked open.
Malfoy. Again.
He stepped inside like he owned the place. His lips curled into that smug, familiar sneer, the one he wore like armour. The one that used to annoy me. Now it made me sick.
"Do you see now the cost of your disobedience?" he asked, voice smooth and rehearsed. Like he'd practised that line in front of a mirror.
I stared at him, forcing the rage to stay buried under my skin. My fists clenched, white-knuckled and trembling. "Do you see what happens when you betray the only thing worth fighting for?" I asked, my voice barely more than a growl.
For a moment—just a second—I thought I saw something shift in his expression. Doubt? Regret? Pain? I couldn't be sure. Maybe I imagined it. Whatever it was, he buried it fast, slipping back behind that cold mask.
"You still don't understand," he said, like I was some slow student who wouldn't get the lesson. "This isn't courage. It's stupidity. You think dying for a cause makes you brave? It makes you pathetic."
I tried to respond, but nothing came out—my throat was raw, words stuck somewhere between fury and exhaustion. He lifted a hand to silence me before I could try again.
"Save your breath," he said, his voice like ice creeping over glass. "We've already wasted enough time. Crabbe. Goyle."
They came crashing in like monsters from a nightmare, their shapes too big for the room, eyes empty. Each grabbed one of my arms like they were handling something disgusting. I didn't fight. I'd learnt that lesson the hard way. Some fights were over before they began.
They dragged me out, jerking me along like I weighed nothing. I stumbled but didn't fall—just let them pull me down, down, deeper into the dark. My feet barely touched the ground. It felt like I was sinking into something endless.
We hit the stairs and descended, spiralling lower. The stone walls pressed close, the air thicker with every step. A prison beneath a prison. A place they sent people to disappear.
Halfway down, one of them shoved me hard, laughing under his breath. I lurched forward and caught myself at the last second. Didn't look back. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Malfoy's voice followed, cutting through the silence like a blade. "The only reason you're still alive is because they think you're useful," he said. "But keep testing that theory, and see how fast it changes."
When we entered the Slytherin common room, I felt it immediately—pressure, like walking into a storm. The green-tinged light bled across the floor, dim and sickly. It made the shadows stretch longer, deeper. Everything looked like it had been dipped in poison.
Dozens of eyes snapped to me the second I stepped inside. Cold. Hungry. Some were curious. Most full of hate.
There were familiar faces. Pansy. Zabini. Others I didn't know by name but knew by reputation. Not one of them looked surprised to see me dragged in like a trophy. Their sneers twisted into ugly shapes. Their mouths moved, and the venom poured out.
"Filth."
"Potter stinks."
Their voices hit like slaps. My hands curled into fists, shaking so hard I thought the bones would snap. I kept my head down. Not out of fear—I just couldn't look at them. Couldn't look at how much they enjoyed this.
I kept walking. The crowd shifted reluctantly, parting as if I were something diseased. Eyes followed me, sharp and mocking. Crabbe and Goyle didn't stop. They pushed me forward every time I slowed. Their hands bruised. I bit my tongue to stop from crying out.
And then, finally, I was out.
The moment the door closed behind me, I could breathe again. But it wasn't relief. It was something else—raw panic masked as freedom. Every step forward felt like walking into a trap. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I had to keep moving.
The castle didn't feel like Hogwarts anymore. The corridors were long and twisting, the torchlight too faint to trust. Shadows moved when I didn't. The walls felt closer than they used to. Everything looked like a blur. My eyes were useless now—too tired, too dry, too damaged.
Sometimes I'd catch a flicker—a shape, a ripple of fabric—and my stomach would drop. Was it a Death Eater? A student? Just another shadow? I couldn't tell. I couldn't trust anything.
This place had once felt like home. Now it felt like it was watching me.
Every step was borrowed time.
As we climbed the stairs toward the upper corridors, something dark began to pulse behind my scar. It wasn't the stabbing pain I was used to when Voldemort was nearby—it was slower, heavier. Like hot iron had been poured into my bloodstream and was now settling into my forehead, branding me from the inside out. Every step made it worse. Every breath scraped against something that shouldn't be touched.
But I kept moving.
Pain didn't matter. Not now. I told myself to keep going—run, crawl, do whatever it took to get away. The pain could wait.
But it didn't.
By the time I reached the middle of the staircase leading up to the Great Hall, my legs buckled. I grabbed at the stone wall with one hand, the other clutching my skull like I could physically hold it together. My head throbbed like it might burst open. It was as if something had sunk claws into the back of my brain and was tearing its way forward, slicing through every thought, every memory.
I bit down hard to keep from screaming, but I couldn't stop it. The sound ripped from my throat—raw and helpless, echoing through the corridor like a death knell. My vision blurred. The world tilted sideways. I dropped, knees smashing into the cold stone. I barely caught myself with shaking hands before I collapsed completely.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Just pain and heat and fear clawing through me.
And then, that voice.
"Nice of you to announce yourself, Potter."
Low. Icy. Drenched in cruel amusement.
Snape.
Of course.
I didn't even need to look. His voice had a sharpness that cut straight through the haze. I saw him through the corner of my eye, gliding toward us in those same sweeping black robes, like some shadow peeled itself off the wall. But there was something different about him tonight—his expression was colder and tighter. There was a storm beneath the surface.
"Leave us," he snapped, his tone slicing through the air like a hex.
Malfoy hesitated, clearly thrown off. "But we're supposed to take him to the Great Hall—"
Snape turned on him with a glare so sharp it could've stopped a spell midair. "And here we are," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Now get back to your dormitory. All of you."
Malfoy faltered. I saw it—the flicker of fear. He wasn't used to seeing Snape like this, and for once, he didn't argue. He traded a look with Crabbe and Goyle before backing away. Their footsteps echoed off the stone as they left.
And just like that, it was me and Snape. Alone.
The quiet that followed was louder than anything. It pressed in from all sides.
I stayed on the floor, knees pulled in, arms tight around myself. My whole body shook. My hands were raw. I stared at the stone, as if I could fall into it and disappear.
"Potter," Snape said. Firm. Controlled.
I didn't answer. I didn't even flinch. My fingers slid up to my left arm, brushing over the skin there—bare now, thanks to the short sleeves of my worn shirt. I hated how exposed I felt.
"Potter," he said again, voice sharper now.
Still, I didn't move. Didn't look at him. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing how close I was to breaking. He didn't deserve my words. He didn't deserve anything from me.
"Potter!" he barked, louder this time. His boots struck the floor with slow, deliberate steps.
I tensed as he stopped beside me. I could feel him watching. Waiting.
Then he crouched down, lowering himself to my level. I heard the fabric of his robes shift, the quiet sound of a tired breath. His voice dropped. "Pot—"
He stopped.
The silence that followed felt heavy, charged.
I risked a glance at him. His eyes were locked on my arm. The mark.
The Dark Mark, sharp and clear against my skin. Like it had always belonged there. Like it had been waiting.
He stared.
The shame hit me like ice water. I wanted to cover it, hide it, and run from it—but I didn't. I let him look. Let the weight of it settle over both of us.
My chest burnt with something worse than pain. A twisted mess of rage and guilt and grief. I didn't know where one ended and the other began.
I looked him dead in the eye.
My voice came out low, trembling with fury. "What's the matter, Snape?" I said. "Do you like it?"
He didn't answer.
I gave him a bitter smile. The kind that didn't reach anywhere near my eyes. "Is that what you wanted, Snape?" I said, voice trembling. "Is this what you signed up for? Watching your master brand me like a dog?"
His eyes didn't leave the mark.
"Go on, look at it," I spat. "You helped him, didn't you? You made this possible."
He still said nothing.
I could feel it all rising—grief, fury, betrayal—burning up inside me like a storm. And I let it.
"Do you see it now?" I said, lower this time. "Everything you've done. Everything he's taken."
The silence after that wasn't empty. It was full of everything I couldn't say. Everything he wouldn't.
And I hated him for it.
Snape's face was stone. No anger, no guilt, not even the flicker of a thought. Just that same cold, unreadable stare he always wore, like a wall built to keep everything in—and everyone else out. His eyes locked onto mine, black and sharp, cutting right through me. It felt like he was peeling me apart, layer by layer, studying every weakness. I hated how exposed I felt under that gaze.
Then he looked down at the Dark Mark on my arm. I saw his jaw tighten—just barely—and when he looked back at me, it was like he wasn't seeing me at all, just a reflection warped by something neither of us could name.
"I don't understand how you could betray him," I said, my voice trembling. I hated how fragile it sounded. "He trusted you. More than anyone. He believed in you when no one else did. And you—you killed him."
My throat tightened. My hands shook.
"He gave everything to this place. To us. And you—what did you do? You destroyed it. You destroyed him. And now you're still here, like nothing happened. Like you belong here. But you don't. You don't."
Snape didn't flinch. He didn't blink. Just said, in a low, commanding voice, "Be silent."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. His words cut through the air like a blade. I felt my mouth snap shut without thinking, like some part of me still obeyed him out of habit. Or fear. I wasn't sure which.
But the fire inside me didn't go out. It just got hotter.
I clenched my fists. "No," I growled. "I'm not staying quiet anymore."
I shoved my arm toward him. The mark burnt red against my skin, pulsing with every heartbeat.
"Look at this. Is this what you wanted?" My voice cracked with fury. "Is this what it's all been for? Voldemort. Dumbledore. Everything falling apart. You helped make this happen. We trusted you—and now look where we are."
Then his voice came, curling around my thoughts like smoke.
"Yes, that's right, Harry," Voldemort whispered. His tone was soft, almost amused. "Snape is a traitor to both sides, isn't he? Always playing games. Always pretending to know what's best."
The chill of his presence coiled around my mind, wrapping tighter with every word. My scar flared hot, then hotter, like a spike being driven through my skull.
"Get out," I rasped. I clutched at my forehead, pressing my palm to the scar like I could shut him out. "Get out of my head!"
But he wasn't listening. He never did.
"You've always wanted to strike him, haven't you?" Voldemort hissed. "From the very beginning. You never trusted him. You were right."
Pain roared through my skull like fire. I staggered, dizzy, barely breathing. It felt like my brain was splitting in half, and Voldemort's voice was slipping through the cracks.
Stop. Just stop.
My fists trembled at my sides. Every part of me screamed. But I didn't fall. Not yet.
Snape was already moving. He'd seen enough—seen what was happening, how the Dark Mark on my arm had flared, how Voldemort had sunk his claws into my mind again. His hand clamped onto my other arm. Cold. Steady. Relentless.
No questions. No warnings. That wasn't Snape's style.
He hauled me up, quick and hard.
I tried to resist—to say something, anything—but the words caught in my throat. I couldn't breathe. My knees buckled beneath me, and a wave of pain crashed through my head, making my vision blur at the edges.
The only reason I didn't hit the ground was because Snape was still holding me. His grip like iron, dragging me forward as if the weight of my pain didn't matter. As if it shouldn't matter.
Ahead of us loomed the doors to the Great Hall.
They looked like the entrance to a tomb.
I could feel it—everything waiting for me on the other side. Voldemort. The Death Eaters. The truth. It was too much. My chest tightened. My lungs felt like they'd stopped working.
I wasn't ready.
I wasn't strong enough.
I couldn't do this.
My steps faltered. My legs were jelly. My vision pulsed with light and shadow. The pain in my scar was so sharp it felt like I was being sliced from the inside out. My arm throbbed with the burning heat of the mark. I was losing myself, piece by piece.
Snape said nothing. He never did.
But his hand didn't let go.
He steadied me, holding me up without a word, like it didn't even occur to him to let me fall.
I froze. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Snape didn't wait for me to recover.
He didn't ask if I was ready.
He just shoved me forward—firm and final.
The great doors creaked open.
The world beyond them tilted, warped by fear and pain and memory.
And everything slowed.