Dead. And at that angle? Alive.

Blazed secrets

Harry veins and blood caught fire and he screamed. For it to stop. For help. For anyone to help.

He trashed and twisted, his nails catching his skin, his face and drawing lines of blood.

Help me.

Please.

***

Lord Voldemort gazed into the dying fire. The quietness of his study a sanctuary of his mind.

The texts he'd been perusing held no answers to his confusion. Neither the Malfoy library, nor any other of his servant's seemed to contain any more information than he had already gathered before undertaking the ritual.

Magic was a fickle thing, mostly experienced rather than discovered. Secrets were often jealously guarded before getting lost to time.

He understood the need. It was just.

Frustrating.

Nagini shifted from her coiled knot. Hissing slightly in confusion. He moved a soothing hand toward the reptile, ready to inquire about the source of her discomfort, when he felt it.

It was like a window at the back of his mind had been blown open, curtains flapping widely in the wind of an incoming storm. It felt like a lifeline trashing loose.

The Dark Lord closed his eyes, focusing his attention on the deep recess of his mind and their shifting shadows.

It appeared the pooling darkness has concealed much deeper abysses than he'd thought.

'Please...' the whispered echo pleaded again and again, reaching out to him. Coiling around him in desperation. In need.

And he grabbed onto it.

***

A searing pain from his forearm diverted Rookwood's attention from the Potter boy's torture. Gasping, he caught onto the dirty rag that passed as his sleeve and yanked it up to reveal The Mark.

It was a deep inky black, fresh as the day his master had seared it into his flesh. He caressed the shape with a shaking thumb, before hungrily turning his eyes back to the scene in front of him.

Just in time to see the Auror crashing out of Potter's cell.

'Accidental Magic, eh Potter?' The man sneer, getting up from the floor. 'Azkaban's not yet got to you in earnest? No matter, it shall soon enough.'

The burning was already fading from Rookwood's wrist, and he pressed his hand to it as to keep the burning from slipping away.

The auror raised his wand again, fuelled by rage.

'Cruc...'

'No!' Another voice shouted, and a stunner hit Potter's attacker in the back.

Another auror stepped onto the scene, looking flabbergasted and shocked. Rookwood thought he recognised the man. He belonged to the few that were affected in a permanent fashion to the fortress. A position that generally meant they had performed rather poorly in the line of duty.

The old unspeakable's gears slowly started to turn, after years of disuse.

The Potter boy was important. From what he could piece together, he was likely to become a precious asset if he played his cards right. Which for now, meant keeping him alive.

Until he could be presented to their master.

***

Auror Cleave dashed toward the sobbing, wrecked form of the young prisoner and turned him around.