The second chapter and we get to see Harry being tortured. I cannot believe that I wrote this. Spooked myself out. Anyways, there is torture in this chapter. Not super graphic, but sort of.
Harry Potter smiled as his eyes slowly opened from his dream. He had been in the common room, sitting by the fire with Hermione in his arms. They had been laughing about something, and they both were so happy. He was only that happy in dreams. He did not want to wake up and come back to reality. His reality was a cold, painful, miserable hell. Every waking moment was torture, literally. He shuddered as he thought of all the things that Voldemort had done to him. The only reason that he was still sane was because of the countless spells put on him to keep him sane. Voldemort wanted him aware of everything that was being done to him. The Dark Lord had used both magical and muggle means of torture. He had put a spell on Harry that kept his voice working, so that he could hear his screams. He seemed to take pleasure in every cry of anguish that came from Harry's mouth.
Since he did not have an army to conquer Europe with, he spent most of his time concentrating on hurting the person who was the reason for this predicament. Harry Potter had gotten in his way time and time again, but this last time was the final straw. No one had ever done as much as Harry had done. At least the first time, it was not really him, but his mother. This time, Harry had known exactly what he was doing and what the probable cost would be. That Harry knew what would happen to him somehow made it worse. No one had ever dared to do what Harry had done. No one had the courage and selflessness that Potter did. Harry shuddered again. He would have thought that Voldemort would have killed him by now, but he was not that lucky. Voldemort was still just as angry as he had been six years ago. He did not let anyone else touch Harry. He was the only one. He spent all day torturing Harry and gave Harry the night off to recuperate, only to begin again the next day. To Harry, every minute, every second, seemed to drag on for an eternity. He had lost all sense of time. His glasses had been broken, so he could not see very well. Voldemort had made sure that his eyes worked at least partly so he could see what was being done to him.
Harry looked around the room he was in. The cell was fairly small. Their was nothing in their except a chamber pot, the chains that hung from the wall and attached to the collar on Harry's neck, and the green plush arm chair that seemed totally out of place in the room. Of course that was for Voldemort. Harry could not reach it to sit. He had to be content with leaning against the wall, which was incredibly painful on his back. Most of the time he lay on the floor, as his front was not as damaged as his back. Blood stains were everywhere, most of it Harry's, though not all of it. Whenever Voldemort or his remaining death eaters managed to capture someone, he made Harry watch while they were tortured or killed. He knew that this would almost affect Harry more than being tortured himself because of his selflessness. Harry hated to watch others suffer. Yet as time past, he almost would rather others suffer than him. He hated himself for it, but he was absolutely miserable. He had one thing he could now say about himself. He was very resistant to pain. The crutacious had not hurt him as much as it used to when Voldemort had put him under it after capturing him. Yet it still hurt, and its effects just compounded over time, especially with the other torture. Harry did not know how he could stand it. He was barely holding on.
Harry stiffened and sat up quickly as he heard footsteps coming down the hall. He stopped to steady himself. His eardrums were slightly punctured so that he could still hear, but it was very painful and he had little sense of balance. He knew that those steps must be Voldemort, as the Dark Lord was the only one who came here in the morning. Wormtail fed Harry every third night. That was the only meal Harry got, and it was a small one at that. Harry was now mostly skin and bone. He was covered in healing cuts, scars, open wounds, and blood. He was black and blue on nearly every part of his body. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin that was not damaged was extremely pail.
Voldemort slammed open the door and smirked at his prey. "What shall we do today, Mr. Potter? A round of crutacious first, I think. Crucio!"
Harry fell to the ground and lay there shrieking in pain. His whole body twisted and shook as he writhed on the ground in absolute agony. Voldemort kept the curse on him for a couple of hours, sitting in the chair, watching and listening to the young man's agony. When it was over, Harry pulled himself up to a sitting position, even though every part of him screamed at the effort. He would not give in. He would not show vulnerability. His will was all that he had left, and he would not lose it. Voldemort smirked at Harry and put the curse on again. When he was finally done, five hours had past, and Harry was in pure agony. He did not care if he lived or died. When it was over, Voldemort stood and walked over to Harry. He yanked on his collar, pulled him up, and slammed against the wall. Harry winced as the wall hit his back. Voldemort spun him around and shackled his hands above his head, before ripping off his shirt. Then he yanked out a knife and dug it across Harry's already raw back. He held out his hand and let the blood drip onto it, all the while whispering taunts into Harry's ear. Over and over the cold sharp metal dragged across Harry's back. Harry shuddered and moaned, trying to keep himself from screaming. Voldemort's cruel laughter echoed through the room. When he was through, he dropped the knife on the floor and gazed at Harry with a cold smile on his face. Then he grabbed Harry's hand and proceeded to snap his already broken fingers. Harry shook with pain, trying to keep his agony off his face, and not really succeeding. Voldemort laughed again and stepped back to his chair. When he was seated, he pointed his wand at Harry and put him under the pain spell again. Hour after hour past. When that was over, Harry was again chained to the wall. Voldemort took out a whip that was tipped with pieces of glass and proceeded to beat Harry with it. This time Harry could not keep himself from screaming as the glass dug into his raw back. He howled, trying to think of anything but the pain. When it was over, he slumped to the ground. He was not allowed a respite, as the crutacious was again put on him. Harry lost all sense of anything but his pain. He could not turn his thoughts to anything else.
When the day was over, Voldemort healed Harry's cuts enough so he would not bleed to death, then left. Harry slumped onto the ground, thoroughly exhausted. However, as usual, he had trouble getting to sleep. Pain will do that to you. He was sure that was why Voldemort was willing to give him nine hours to sleep. Voldemort knew that he was probably only sleeping for about six or seven hours of it. Harry shifted, trying to get as comfortable as he possible could. When at last he fell asleep, his dreams again were of Hermione. In his dreams, he was in love with her. When he was awake, he had little time to think on it, but he knew that he was. It had happened sometime during fifth year, he was not sure when. It had taken him a long time to realize it. By the time he had, it was too late. He knew that he would never see her again. He hoped she was happy. He hoped that she had fallen for someone and was happily married, working as an auror, her dream job. He wished he was with her, but he hoped she had moved on. He selfishly hoped that she had loved him at some time, but he doubted it. Why would she love him? He had come to hate himself. Partly because of his usual self guilt, and partly because of Voldemort's taunts. He felt so guilty for everything. He did not deserve his friends, and he certainly did not deserve Hermione. Yet, in his dreams, he was with her. These dreams kept him going, even when things were at their worst. Hermione was his light, his hope. Thoughts of her kept him from losing all hope. As long as she was alive, he could be at least partly happy.