Take Me As I Am

I

Dying used to be one of Harry's worst anxieties. No, it wasn't death itself — it was what he would be leaving behind. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, the Weasleys — they were family now. Remus and Sirius could have been, in another life, but in that perfect world his parents would have been alive.

But no, now Harry begs for death. Begs for the voices to stop, for the torture to end. The pain.

Sharp, rusted manacles shackle his ankles and wrists to the cell's wall, just like they do every day. With a snap, Harry's back slams into the wall, resulting in a sickening crunch. He cries out, gritting his teeth together.

The Dark Lord's mouth curves into a cruel, twisted smile. "Lucius," he says sharply.

A silver-haired man in the corner of the dungeon turns to look at the dark wizard, emotionless expression wavering. "Yes, my lord?"

"Fetch the Draught of Living Death, would you?" Voldemort fingers his wand fondly, his hand curling around it like a child would their favorite toy.

Harry's eyes widen in surprise. No Cruciatus today? 

Not to mention the Draught of Living Death induced a death-like trance of sleep. If anything, Voldemort would be doing him a favor.

"Don't relax just yet, Potter," Voldemort smirks. "The celebration has only just begun."

Ah, yes. The celebration. The end of the war? His capture? Harry isn't quite sure. In fact, the days have blurred together so much that he doesn't know how long he's been here.

For the first twenty-six days, he counted. And he kept on counting, until all he could think of was 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 —

One day, Harry stopped counting. This just so happened to be the day that Harry lost hope.

Now, Voldemort is approaching him with a syringe. A muggle object, something so mundane that Harry would never suspect Voldemort to use one.

But he is. And as the needle enters his neck, Harry feels his limbs turning to jelly.

No pain today? That'll be nice.

Harry is so, very far from the truth. Within the next few seconds, his insides begin to burn.

His body twitches, trying to flail in his restraints, but the Draught of Living Death restricts any unwanted movement.

Voldemort's eyes glint, looking quite pleased with himself.

"The acid works wonderfully. Thank you, Draco."

"Of course, my lord. Anything to please my master," Draco murmurs. His eyes never leave the floor, not once.

Upon hearing Draco's voice, Harry's heart sinks. He had been the one to create whatever hell is currently coursing through his veins?

Harry lets out a yell, causing Draco to wince. Bloody coward.

Harry's body pleads to be set free. It's as if the Cruciatus curse is a potion, only not quite as potent with twice the efficiency.

Then Harry's body stills, his limbs still throbbing from the acid eating away at him from the inside.

Voldemort grabs his chin aggressively, turning it up so that Harry is forced to look him in the eyes.

"Having fun yet, Tom?" Harry growls, his voice shaky. Even after being tortured for almost a month straight, the defiance hasn't left his eyes. Not yet.

The dark wizard's expression turns murderous. "Crucio," Voldemort snarls.

And fire explodes throughout Harry's body once more. His body resists against the draught, convulsing against his shackles and causing blood to escape from wounds in his wrists.