Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ On Hollow Ground ❯ Chapter 3 ( Chapter 3 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Malfoy’s retreating back—the way he had shut the door with a resounding thud, sealing me away—gnawed at my senses. I wanted nothing more than to curse him or maybe even strangle him. The thought was exhilarating until my Dark Mark throbbed with the silent warning that reminded me of my place in this twisted game Voldemort was orchestrating. I could almost hear that insidious voice whispering in my ear; I could almost feel the heat of the curse creeping back into my mind.

But I couldn’t. If there was one thing I had learnt since taking on this wretched existence, it was that any act of defiance came with dire consequences. A punishment I could hardly bear. The Mark burnt fiercely at the thought, a reminder that I was on a leash, my movements dictated by the will of a monster.

Frantically, I dug through the contents of my trunk, hastily tossing aside books and rumpled clothes. Nothing seemed remotely useful—my wand had been missing since last night. Oh, how I yearned for that comforting sense of power and control it had always provided, that familiar weight in my hand. The dull, gnawing ache of utter helplessness pulsed in time with the searing brand upon my arm.

"Think, Harry, think!” I muttered urgently, my heart pounding as I frantically scanned the assortment of trinkets in my trunk, desperately searching for anything that could aid me in the confrontation looming ahead—if it indeed came to that. The dark thoughts of the impending clash consumed my mind. Yet with each surge of adrenaline, the crushing weight of my dire circumstances threatened to pull me under, filling me with a growing sense of hopelessness.

The old, musty school book caught my eye, and I seized it desperately, as if it could be my salvation. With a racing heart, I rushed to the window and hurled the book against the glass.

"Let it break! Please, just let me escape this nightmare!"

But the book merely rebounded, thumping loudly against the stone floor, mocking my futile attempt. The protective enchantments encasing the windows glimmered slightly, a cruel reminder of my entrapment. I let out a bitter, humourless laugh—the sheer hopelessness of my situation was almost laughable.

I knelt beside my trunk once again, the cold seeping through my knees. With desperate, quivering fingers, I frantically rummaged through its contents, frantically searching for anything—anything at all—that could provide a momentary distraction, a fleeting respite from the searing, relentless agony radiating from my left arm, which made it impossible to focus.

The Dark Mark twisted and contorted in a grotesque display, the serpent slithering in endless, agonising spirals. Its inky black outline writhed and convulsed as if alive and sentient. Needles of searing, white-hot pain stabbed mercilessly through my arm, eliciting a broken, anguished whimper that escaped my trembling lips. I despised the sound of my own suffering, a testament to the humiliation I felt. The immense frustration of being reduced to this state—the weakness I had sworn I would never reveal—clawed at me just as viciously as the cursed mark itself.

And then, his voice came.

“Do you crave more pain, Harry?” Voldemort’s words slithered into my mind, as if the serpentine mark had lent him a direct passage into my thoughts. He laughed, cold and unfeeling, a sound that sent shivers down my spine despite the heat that burnt at my arm. “I can always inflict it without a second thought.”

I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response, even as his presence constricted my breathing, making it ragged and strained. The faint throbbing of my scar seemed to pulse in time with his malicious proximity, as if my very mind was tethered to his darkness.

"Ah, silence then?" he sneered, his voice dripping with condescension. "You believe that defiance makes you strong? Foolish child, your delusion that my power can be withstood is nothing but a fantasy. Your resistance may amuse me for now, but it will not last. The pain you feel, Harry, is merely a symptom of your own foolishness."

I clenched my jaw in a futile attempt to quell the rising panic, refusing to let him see the terror in my eyes as I averted my gaze. It mattered little whether his malicious voice echoed in my mind or reverberated through the Dark Mark seared into my flesh—he had invaded the sanctity of my being, and I would not grant him the power to dominate me.

"I can make this pain stop," he hissed, "all you have to do is obey me." His venomous words slithered through the air, a serpent's promise coiled around the deceitful offer.

The agony seared through my veins, but I clenched my jaw, refusing to surrender. "Never," I growled inwardly, tightening my grip on my arm until my knuckles turned white. I clutched harder, desperately trying to smother the pulsing magic that threatened to consume me.

Voldemort's laughter deepened, taking on a more sinister tone. He remained silent but inflicted even greater agony in my arm until it began to bleed, crimson droplets staining my trembling fingers. I let out a guttural scream, the anguished sound tearing from the depths of my chest as I cradled my injured arm, curling into a ball on the cold, unyielding stone floor, desperate for the surface to somehow absorb my overwhelming despair.

"You will obey me, Harry," he hissed, a statement, not a question. "It’s in your nature. Your entire, pitiful life has been spent bending to the will of others. Your muggle relatives… Dumbledore... And now, to me."

“No!” I shouted into the suffocating darkness. “Don’t you dare mention them. Don’t you dare.”

At this, Voldemort chuckled—a tinkling, grating sound, more mocking than outright menacing. It wormed its way into my ears and lodged itself there, like a beetle burrowing toward the inaccessible channels of my mind.

Voldemort's venomous voice snaked around me, laced with enticing malice. "Harry, defiance will only invite anguish. So many of your loved ones teeter on the precipice of peril... Wouldn't it be a devastating tragedy if something were to befall your cherished little school?" he hissed, his words dripping with sinister allure.

Rage burnt within me as I clenched my fists, yet the shackles of fear held me captive in this desolate place. How dare he threaten those I hold dear?

“Enough!” I shouted, but the echo swallowed my voice. I was more than a mere prisoner—I was a target, and he knew all my vulnerabilities.

"Ah, but you are the one who is trapped, Harry—not just in this room, but in your own mind. How effortlessly I can twist the knife." Another ripple of laughter, and my heart sank further. "Tell me, do you truly value the safety of your friends? Or will you persist in this futile struggle? I can demonstrate the consequences that befall those who dare to defy me."

Vivid images of my friends flashed through my mind—Ron's stunned, bewildered expression consumed by the chaos; Hermione, bravely battling but painfully vulnerable; Ginny—the mere thought of her filled me with a sense of utter dread. The agonising realisation that they were harmed due to my own stubborn obstinance was almost more than I could bear.

"Imagine their sheer terror, Harry—the screams of those you could rescue, if only you would surrender. They will endure the torment of your cowardice unless you submit."

Overwhelmed by the seemingly insurmountable struggle, each pounding heartbeat echoed with the crushing weight of his threats. Stumbling backward, I clutched at my head, desperate to physically purge his presence. "Leave them out of this! I won't—"

His voice dropped to a sinister whisper. "Won't what? Defy me? Save them? You don't have the strength, Harry. You never did." He sneered. "Hand me your loyalty, and I might spare them."

I closed my eyes, bracing for an onslaught of darkness. Memories swarmed—my friends’ faces, shining with love; the camaraderie of Gryffindor, the courage that had always pulled us through. I had faced Death Eaters, dementors, and even my own fears. The unending darkness swelled around me, but so too did the light.

“Enough!” I screamed, clarity breaking through the haze. “I will never bend to you, Voldemort. My friends are stronger than you think, and they won't fight alone!”

A suffocating silence descended, as if my defiant words had stolen the air from his lungs.

“Interesting,” he finally purred, the shadowed corners of my mind dimming. “We shall see how long your conviction lasts under real pressure, Harry.”

Overwhelming, paralysing fear gripped me, strangling the words in my throat. "What are you—" I tried to speak, but my voice caught, abruptly cut off as my vision blurred and twisted, yanking me away from my own reality and violently thrusting me into another. The surroundings sharpened with a sudden, ruthless clarity. I stood—or, rather, Voldemort stood—on the polished stone floor of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

The flickering torchlight along the walls danced and wavered, casting sinister shadows that appeared to writhe and twist. The students of Hogwarts sat frozen at their tables, their wide, terrified eyes locked onto the ominous figure of Voldemort. And in the heart of the eerie scene, a lone figure knelt trembling on the cold, stone floor.

It was Colin Creevey.

My heart raced as I watched the small, quivering boy cower before the towering, menacing presence of Voldemort. The child's wide, desperate eyes were locked onto the dark wizard looming over him, paralysed with sheer terror.

And I? I was locked inside Voldemort himself. My consciousness was held prisoner within his cold, alien mind. I couldn't move. I could barely think. All I could do was feel his disdainful sneer curling my lips—lips that weren’t mine.

"Do you see him, Harry?" Voldemort's voice emerged from my throat, slithering like a serpent through the silent, stone hall. "This little Muggle-born boy thought himself safe, that the castle walls and the friendship of the so-called Chosen One would protect him." His laughter was a hollow, croaking sound, scraping against my ears.

"Let him go!" I desperately pleaded, though the words never reached the surface of Voldemort's mouth. My voice echoed hollowly within me, a futile attempt to reason with him. "He's just a kid! He’s done nothing wrong!"

But Voldemort heard only his own cruelty. "Look at his face," he sneered, his voice thick with mockery. "Etched with fear, Harry. Do you feel it? Do you taste it? This is the symbol of your failure. You cannot save everyone."

I wanted to run to Colin, to stand in front of him and shield him with every fibre of my being. But I was trapped in this nightmarish vessel, helpless as Voldemort raised a skeletal hand. His wand glinted cruelly, every movement deliberate, savouring the escalating fear among the students.

Voldemort let out a sinister laugh. "Shall I teach you a lesson about defying me?" he taunted. "One by one, I will snuff out the lives of every last muggleborn. Their deaths will weigh heavily on your conscience if you refuse to join me." He gestured menacingly at the boy. "This one will expose your weakness for all to see."

A thick sense of dread constricted my throat as I forced myself to swallow hard. "No, please! You don't have to do this!" I cried, my voice trembling with desperation. "You can't be this cruel!"

"Cruelty is merely a tool, Harry," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain. "It's time you learnt that power is the true currency of this world. If you wish to challenge me, then be prepared to face the consequences of your defiance."

With a flick of his wrist, Colin's breathing grew rapid, and his face contorted in fear. "Please!" he cried out, desperation threading through his words. "Help!"

A searing pain gripped my chest as I watched the light fading from Colin's eyes, his vibrant life flickering out like a candle in the wind. "Stop, please!" I pleaded, my anguished cries laced with desperation.

"Obey me, Harry," Voldemort demanded, his serpentine voice dripping with malice, "or your precious Gryffindor mudblood will meet a swift and merciless end."

"What do you want from me?!" I cried, each syllable a plea for clarity amidst the chaos swirling in my mind.

“I’m simply asking you to join me in the Great Hall,” he said mockingly, as if inviting me to a feast. His arrogant tone was unmistakable, and a shiver of dread raced down my spine, clawing at my sanity. "Surely that's not too much to ask?" he added, his condescension dripping from every syllable.

Desperation gripped me as I struggled to make sense of the absurd situation. "Why should I join you? What are you planning to do?" I asked, my voice laced with uncertainty as I desperately sought any semblance of logic amidst the chaos.

"You'll never know if you'll never come," he taunted, and I could almost sense him revelling in my confusion. "Unless, of course, you need persuading."

His attention was back to Colin, whose fragile figure weakened my resolve to disobey Voldemort.

Echoing footsteps—heavy and deliberate—reached my ears just beyond the door of my makeshift prison. The frigid dungeon air bit into my skin as I stood, knees trembling, bracing for the inevitable. My pounding heartbeat thundered in my chest, as if it could be heard on the other side of the door. The door creaked open, and there he was again.

Malfoy stepped into the room, his sharp, pale features illuminated by the flickering torchlight. His thin lips twisted into a malevolent sneer, a cruel expression that sent a shudder through me.

Malfoy sneered at me, his head tilted in a condescending manner, as if I were a misbehaving child in need of discipline. "Do you see now the consequences of your disobedience?" he spat, his words laced with a practiced air of superiority.

Beneath my calm exterior, my white-knuckled fists trembled with barely contained fury. “Do you see what happens when you betray the one thing worth fighting for?” I demanded in a hoarse yet venomous tone.

A shadow of emotion flickered across his features—a glimmer of regret or pain, fleeting and hard to discern. But it was quickly extinguished, his expression reverting to the icy indifference he so often wore like an impenetrable shield.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he said, his voice quieter now, as if chastising a dimwitted student. “Disobedience isn’t bravery—it’s stupidity, reckless idealism.”

I opened my mouth to speak—to argue, to demand—but my voice came out as only a croak. He raised a hand to cut me off. "Save whatever whining excuse you’re about to make,” he drawled, his voice slithering through the room like dark mist. “We’ve already got enough to deal with. Crabbe. Goyle."

The hulking, lumbering figures of Crabbe and Goyle barged into the room, as if summoned. They seized my arms, their iron-like grips unyielding, and hauled me with effortless ease, as if I were a mere rag doll. My body tensed at their rough, forceful touch, but I did not resist. I had long ago learnt not to waste my strength on battles I knew I could not win.

Roughly yanked through the doorway, I stumbled to keep pace as they hurried me down the ominous, spiralling stone staircase. The descent felt like a plunge into the Underworld, dark and foreboding. Midway, they released their iron grip, but not before shoving me forcefully, nearly sending me tumbling forward. Regaining my balance at the last moment, I had no choice but to continue on, my feet moving forward almost automatically, propelled by a mixture of fear and dread.

Malfoy's cold, sharp voice suddenly pierced the heavy, suffocating silence. "The only reason you're still breathing is that they think you're useful. But keep pushing that theory, and we'll see how long that lasts," he sneered.

The Slytherin common room exuded a palpable tension as I stepped inside. Dim, sickly green light cast an eerie, unsettling glow across the shadowy space. Slytherins lounged on the couches or leaned against the towering bookshelves, their predatory gazes immediately snapping to me. I recognised many faces—Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and others—their expressions smouldering with open hatred.

“Filth,” someone hissed under their breath.

“Potter stinks,” sneered another.

Gripping my hands into tight, trembling fists, I trudged forward, head hung low in defeat. The sneering Slytherins begrudgingly made way, eyeing me with a mixture of revulsion and scorn, as if my very presence polluted their hallowed halls. Whenever I faltered, Crabbe and Goyle would roughly shove me onwards, their small-minded cruelty etched in their cruel grins.

The moment I stepped out from the Slytherin common room, it felt as if the chains that had bound me were finally broken. But this was no ordinary stroll through Hogwarts' corridors—this was an act of defiance, a desperate bid for freedom. Despite the exhilaration of breaking free, a lump of fear clawed its way into my chest. The very stones of the castle now seemed to bear the mark of impending danger, as if Voldemort's watchful followers lurked around every corner, their eyes fixed on me, waiting for me to falter.

The endless corridors before us resembled a labyrinth, the flickering torchlight casting twisted, pulsing shadows that shifted with every step. Worse yet, my poor eyesight rendered the world around me a blur—a hazy smear of grey and black, interrupted only by faint yellow glows. With each shift of the light, I squinted desperately, struggling to discern the edge of the staircase from the swooping shape of a Death Eater's cloak. What was once a castle I navigated with reluctant fascination now felt like an endless maze of horrors.

As we approached the corridors overhead, a dull, throbbing ache radiated from my scar. This was no ordinary pain—not the searing agony I felt when directly connected to Voldemort. No, this was an ever-present, excruciating sensation, like molten steel coursing through my veins and pooling on my forehead.

The initial pain was insignificant compared to my overwhelming urge to keep moving. Flee now, deal with the agony later, I told myself. But by the time I reached the halfway point of the stairs leading up to the Great Hall, the ache had become excruciating. I doubled over, clutching my pounding head with one hand while gripping the stone wall for support with the other. It felt as if my skull might split in two, as if some unseen, clawed force was tearing into the depths of my very being.

I desperately fought to suppress the scream building inside, clenching my jaw in a futile attempt to contain it. But the agonising cry ripped from my throat, echoing hauntingly through the empty halls and surely reaching the ears of anyone nearby. Overwhelming fear and searing pain flooded my senses, causing my head to spin. Overcome, I collapsed to my knees, only just managing to catch myself on my trembling hands before the rough, unforgiving ground tore into my palms.

“Nice of you to announce yourself, Potter,” a low, familiar voice cut through the charged air, dripping with sarcasm.

Oh, of course. Snape.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as the Potions master glided toward us, his dark robes billowing behind him. There was an edge to Snape tonight—sharper, colder, and more volatile than usual.

"Leave us," Snape snapped, his words slicing through the tense atmosphere, daring anyone to defy him.

Malfoy's smuggest sneer faltered slightly under Snape's impatient glare. "But we're supposed to bring Potter to the Great Hall," he protested.

Snape's lip curled as he snarled, "And that's what you did. We're right outside, aren't we? Now, make a move on and go back to your dormitory. I'll take Potter from here."

Surprisingly, Malfoy hesitated. There was something different about this encounter, something even he could sense. His usual arrogance seemed dulled, replaced by a flicker of unease. The three of them exchanged uncertain looks before stalking off, their footsteps echoing unevenly on the ancient floor.

That left just me and Snape.

I took a shaky breath, trying to calm my pounding heart. Alone with Snape, the silence felt oppressive and suffocating.

"Potter," he said, his tone firm yet strangely subdued.

I kept my gaze fixed on the cold, hard stone floor, my knees pulled tightly to my chest. Absently, my fingers traced the raw, unprotected skin of my left arm, visible beneath the short sleeves of my worn shirt.

"Potter." His voice was sharper this time, brooking no further delay.

I bit the inside of my cheek, struggling to rein in the urge to explode. What right did he have to speak my name, this man who had betrayed us all—the one who killed Dumbledore? He didn't deserve my words, my attention.

"Potter!" The growl of his voice reverberated through the heavy silence, the sound of his boots on the stone floor as he approached sending a chill down my spine. He loomed over me, but I gave no outward sign of the anger simmering just beneath the surface, my fists clenched tightly at my sides.

 

Snape crouched down to my level, letting out a dry sigh. His voice lowered to a hushed tone. "Pot—" He abruptly stopped, the silence hanging thick between us like a drawn wand. I risked a glance and followed his gaze, which was fixed on my left arm. There, the Dark Mark—my unwanted burden—gleamed against my skin like a trophy.

I swallowed hard, suddenly self-conscious in my short sleeves. Heat flared in my chest—a mix of anger, shame, and other jagged emotions I could no longer untangle. With a bitter, frustrated chuckle, I sneered, "Do you like it, Snape? Admiring your master's handiwork, are you?" My venomous words dripped with resentment.

Snape's face was an impenetrable mask, devoid of any discernible emotion. Not a single muscle twitched or flickered as he held my gaze, his obsidian eyes piercing through me with laser-like intensity. Finally, he lifted his unwavering stare from the Dark Mark, and the way he looked at me was akin to examining a cracked and distorted mirror—analytical, grim, as if he could see far deeper into my soul than I was comfortable with.

"I don't understand how you could betray the one man who trusted you," I continued, my voice trembling with a mix of anguish and disbelief. "He gave everything to this school—to us! I can't fathom why you're still here, pretending to belong when you've shattered that bond beyond repair."

Snape's response was a low, cutting command: "Be silent." His words did not extinguish the fire of my anger, but they carried an undeniable force that demanded obedience. I gritted my teeth, glaring at him with a mixture of rage and raw emotion.

I glared at Snape, my voice dripping with venom. "I refuse to stay quiet any longer." I jabbed an accusatory finger at the dreadful Dark Mark seared into my skin. "Is this what you wanted, Snape? You're the reason we're trapped in this wretched predicament—Voldemort, Dumbledore, everything. We trusted you and people like you, and look where it's gotten us."

"Yes, that’s right, Harry," Voldemort's icy voice slithered through my mind, sending a shiver down my spine. His dark, oppressive presence enveloped me, paralysing my thoughts and senses. "Snape is a fool, isn't he?" he taunted, his words dripping with disdain. "Always pretending to know better, always playing both sides."

"Get out," I whispered hoarsely, my voice ragged with exhaustion. My hand instinctively pressed against the scar on my forehead, as if to block out Voldemort's intrusive presence. "Get out of my head!"

But Voldemort's malicious words relentlessly burrowed deeper into my psyche, like a persistent infestation. "Maybe you can teach him a lesson," he continued, his mocking amusement laced with malice. "You've wanted to, haven't you? Haven't you doubted him from the start?"

My forehead throbbed with a searing, stabbing pain. It felt as if someone was viciously carving into my skull, the scorching flames of doubt threatening to engulf me entirely. Gasping for air, I clenched my fists, desperate for relief. But Snape saw through my struggle. His dark, unrelenting gaze bore into me as he silently rose, unfooled by my turmoil.

The Dark Mark had suddenly flared to life on my arm, searing with an agonising intensity I could scarcely comprehend. Gripping it tightly, I had been desperately trying to stifle the pain, unaware of how tightly my fingers were clenched until I felt Snape's icy hand clamp down on my other arm. Unsurprisingly, the taciturn professor offered no words of explanation—Snape preferred the sharp edge of action over wasted verbiage. His grip was cold, yet commanding, and with stunning, deliberate strength, he hauled me roughly to my feet.

Or tried to.

I tried to speak, but my voice cracked under the weight of panic, reduced to a stammering whisper. My knees buckled, refusing to cooperate as my entire body rebelled. Searing pain from my scar stabbed through my skull in relentless waves, overwhelming every nerve. My vision tunnelled as my legs gave way, and I stumbled forward. Snape's grip was the only thing keeping me grounded as he propelled me toward the looming Great Hall, its entrance like the gateway to a tomb. With each step, the tightness in my chest constricted further, my heart racing erratically. I strained to focus, but the agony in my scar and my arm made it impossible to hold on to any coherent thoughts.

Snape remained silent, his face betraying nothing. Yet his grip on my arm was firm, steadying me as my legs trembled like jelly.

I couldn't go through with this—I couldn't face him, not like this. Panic constricted my lungs, the unbearable weight of the moment crushing me from all sides.

Sensing my frozen hesitation, Snape acted swiftly. With one smooth, decisive motion, he gave me a firm shove forward.

And then the doors were creaking open.

The world slowed.