On Hollow Ground

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.

I rummaged through my trunk, pulling out books and clothes. Nothing seemed immediately useful; my wand had not been returned to me since the incident, or rather, the betrayal. I craved that semblance of control, that familiar weight in my hand. The dull ache of helplessness throbbed in tandem with the mark on my arm.

"Think, Harry, think!" I muttered to myself, scanning the various trinkets in my trunk for anything that might aid me in a showdown—if it indeed came to that. The dark thoughts of confrontation lingered at the edges of my mind, but with every flicker of adrenaline, the weight of my reality dragged me down deeper.

My eyes landed on a particularly old school book. As if it was meant to save me, I grasped it tightly, rushing to the window and throwing it against the glass.

"Let it break," I thought feverishly, my heart racing. "Please, just let me escape!"

But instead, the book rebounded, thumping loudly on the stone floor, mocking me with its failure. The protective enchantments encasing the windows sparkled slightly, a symbol of my entrapment. I let out a bitter laugh; the sheer futility of it all was laughable.

I knelt beside my trunk, the cold seeping through my knees. My fingers fumbled through its contents with trembling haste, searching for anything—anything—that could act as a distraction, a reprieve. The searing pain in my forearm, however, refused to let me think clearly.

The Dark Mark twisted grotesquely, the serpent slithering in endless spirals, its black outline writhing as though alive. Needles of fire stabbed through my arm, eliciting a broken whimper from my lips. I hated the sound of my own pain. The frustration of being reduced to this, the weakness I swore I wouldn't show, clawed at me just as viciously as the 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 respond, though my breathing grew ragged under his presence. My scar throbbed faintly with his proximity to my mind, as if it, too, were tethered to his malice.

"Silence, then?" he sneered. "You think defiance makes you strong? It is a child's delusion—your belief that my power can be withstood. Your resistance is amusing, but it will not last forever. Your pain is... symptomatic, Harry, of your foolishness."

Gritting my teeth so hard it felt like they'd break, I threw my gaze downward, refusing to let him see my fear. Whether he was truly in my head or whether the Dark Mark simply channelled his taunts across the endless miles between us, it didn't matter. He was an intruder in me, and I would not give him the satisfaction of control.

"I can stop this," he hissed, the offer coiled up in a serpent's promise. Poisonous. Sold as relief but forged in deceit. "All you need to do is obey me."

"Never," I declared inwardly, tightening my grasp on my arm even as the pain became intolerable. I clutched harder, as if my grip could smother the magic coursing beneath my skin.

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 malicious voice coiled around me, dripping with seductive menace. "Harry, defiance will only invite suffering. So many of your friends are in grave danger... Wouldn't it be tragic if something were to befall them? That precious little school of yours, perhaps?"

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 defy me."

Flashes of my friends raced through my mind—Ron, his surprised expression lost in the chaos; Hermione, courageously fighting but vulnerable; Ginny—the thought of her filled me with dread. How could I bear the anguish of knowing they were hurt because of my own obstinance?

"Envision their terror, Harry—the anguished cries of those you could save if only you'd surrender. They'll suffer the consequences of your cowardice unless you give in."

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 shadows. 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 fear and panic gripped me. "What are you—" my words caught in my throat, abruptly strangled as my vision blurred and twisted, yanking me away from my own reality and thrusting me into another. My surroundings sharpened with sudden, ruthless clarity. I stood—or, rather, Voldemort stood—on the polished stone floor of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. His presence radiated darkness, a suffocating weight that seeped into the air like poison.

The flickering torchlight along the walls danced and wavered, casting sinister shadows that seemed to come alive. The students of Hogwarts sat motionless at their tables, their wide, terrified eyes glued to Voldemort. And in the centre of it all, a single figure knelt on the cold floor.

It was Colin Creevey.

My pulse pounded in my ears as I stared at him, his small, trembling frame dwarfed by the abyss of terror radiating from Voldemort. His wide, pleading eyes were fixed on Voldemort towering above him.

And I? I was locked inside Voldemort himself. My consciousness 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. He thought the walls of this castle 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 screamed, though the words never reached the surface of Voldemort's mouth. My voice bounced uselessly inside me, desperate and unheard. "He's just a kid! He hasn't done anything 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."

Dread constricted my throat as I swallowed hard. "No! You don't have to do this! You can't be this cruel!" My voice trembled, a feeble attempt to pierce through the darkness that had ensnared us.

"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!"

My heart clenched painfully in my chest as the light began to fade from Colin's eyes, the life in him dimming like a candle threatened by a gust of wind. "Stop it! Please..." I begged, each word laced with anguish.

"Obey me, Harry, or your beloved Gryffindor mudblood will face death," Voldemort commanded.

"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. The arrogance in his voice was palpable, and the shivers racing down my spine felt like icy fingers clawing at my sanity. "Surely that's not too much to ask?"

"Why should I join you? What are you planning to do?" I replied, desperately trying to ground myself in the reality of the situation. My mind raced, searching for any shred of logic amidst the absurdity of it all.

"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 lips curled into a venomous smirk—a cruel curve that twisted my stomach.

Malfoy tilted his head condescendingly, as if scolding an unruly child. "Do you see now what happens when you disobey?" he said, his words dripping with practiced superiority.

Despite my outward composure, my clenched fists at my sides betrayed my inner turmoil. "Do you see what happens when you betray the one thing worth fighting for?" I demanded in a hoarse yet venomous tone.

His eyes narrowed, and for a fleeting moment, I glimpsed a glimmer of emotion—regret? Pain? But it vanished quickly, replaced by the familiar icy indifference he habitually donned like a protective shield.

"You still don't understand, do you?" he said, his voice quieter now, as though addressing a particularly slow 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."

Crabbe and Goyle, their hulking figures lumbering as if summoned, barged into the room. They seized my arms, their grips unyielding as iron shackles, and hauled me to my feet with effortless ease, as if I were a rag doll. My body tensed at their touch, but I didn't resist. I had long ago learnt not to waste my strength on battles I could not win.

Roughly yanked through the doorway, I struggled to keep pace as my captors led me down the ominous, spiralling stone staircase to the Slytherin common room, the descent feeling like a plunge into the Underworld. They released their grip midway, but not before shoving me forcefully, nearly sending me tumbling forward. Regaining my balance just in time, I had no choice but to continue on, my feet moving forward almost automatically.

Malfoy's voice shattered the oppressive silence. "The only reason you're still alive is that they consider you useful. Keep pushing that theory, and we'll see how long that lasts."

As I descended into the Slytherin common room, the tension in the air was palpable. The room was dimly lit with a sickly green glow reflecting off the walls, casting eerie shadows everywhere. A few Slytherins lounged on the couches or leaned against the towering bookshelves, their gazes snapping to me like hawks spotting prey. I recognised many faces—Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and others—open hatred burning in their expressions.

"Filth," someone hissed under their breath.

"Potter stinks," sneered another.

With clenched fists, I forced myself to keep walking, head bowed. The reluctant Slytherins parted before me, regarding me with disgusted contempt, as if I was an unwelcome intruder in their domain. If I slowed, Crabbe and Goyle would occasionally shove me forward, seemingly delighting in their petty power, like schoolyard bullies.

Stepping out from the door of the Slytherin common room felt like breaking the chains that bound me, but only for a fleeting moment. The moment I stepped past those notorious emerald-green thresholds, my heartbeat quickened, hammering against my ribs as if urging me to flee.

But this wasn't just another stroll through the darkened corridors of Hogwarts. No, this was something else entirely. This was an act of defiance, a bid for freedom. Even as my heart lifted at the thought of breaking free, a lump of fear clawed its way into my chest. It was as if every stone of the castle now bore the mark of impending danger. The eyes of Voldemort's followers were everywhere; I could feel them watching, waiting for me to falter.

The corridors stretched before us like an endless labyrinth, the flickering torchlight casting twisted shadows that seemed to pulse and shift with every step. And to make matters worse, my cursed eyesight wasn't doing me any favours. The world around me was barely more than a blur, a smear of grey and black interrupted by faint yellow glows. Each time the light shifted, I squinted in desperation, trying to discern whether it was the edge of the staircase or the swooping shape of a Death Eater's cloak. The castle I had once navigated with a kind of reluctant fascination now felt like an endless maze of horrors.

The closer we got to the open corridors above, the more my scar began to throb. It wasn't the sharp pain that usually hit during direct connection with Voldemort—no, this was dull, omnipresent, and yet excruciating, like molten steel coursing through my veins and pooling right on my forehead.

At first, the pain didn't matter as much as my burning need to keep moving. Flee now, process the agony later, I thought. But by the time I was halfway to the stairs leading up to the Great Hall, the ache became unbearable. I doubled over, clutching my forehead with one hand while gripping the stone wall for support with the other. It felt like my head might split in two, like some invisible, clawed hand was tearing into my soul from the inside.

I tried to hold in the scream—really, I did. But it tore out of me anyway, echoing down the halls and surely alerting anyone close enough to hear it. My head swam with fear and pain in equal measure. I dropped to my knees, barely catching myself on my hands before the rough stone ground tore into my palms.

"Nice of you to announce yourself, Potter," a low, familiar voice called. 

Oh, of course. Snape.

From my unfocused periphery, I could see him gliding toward us, his dark robes trailing behind him.

"Leave us," Snape snapped, his voice cutting through the charged air as if challenging it to oppose him.

"But we're supposed to bring Potter to the Great Hall," Malfoy protested, his smuggest sneer faltering slightly under Snape's impatient glare. There was an edge to Snape tonight—sharper, colder, more volatile than usual.

"And that's what you did," Snape snarled, his lip curling. "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 deep breath, trying to steady the frantic beating of my heart. Alone with Snape, I felt the weight of silence heavy around us.

"Potter," he began, his tone firm yet oddly restrained.

I didn't look up. I kept my stare fixed on the stone floor, my knees pulled tightly to my chest. My fingers idly traced the ridges of my left arm, raw and unguarded under the short sleeves of my old shirt.

"Potter."

His voice was sharper this time.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to explode, not yet. What right did he have to speak to me, to say my name at all? The man who had betrayed us all—the man who killed Dumbledore. He didn't deserve my words. He didn't deserve my attention.

"Potter!"

The growl of his voice reverberated through the silence, thick and heavy. I could hear the clack of his boots against the stone floor as he closed the distance between us. He loomed over me, but I gave nothing away. My fists clenched at my sides, restraining the anger that was bubbling to the surface.

Then, with a dry sigh, he crouched to my level. His voice shifted to something quieter. "Pot—"

Snape stopped. Abrupt silence hung between us like a drawn wand. I risked a glance at him and followed his line of sight. That's when I realised it. His eyes were fixed on my left arm, where the mark gleamed like an unwanted trophy etched into my skin.

The Dark Mark. My burden.

I swallowed hard. Somehow, I hadn't thought about it until now, sitting defenceless in my short sleeves. Heat flared in my chest—anger, shame, and the jagged mix of emotions I couldn't fully untangle anymore.

I let out a bitter, frustrated chuckle. "Do you like it, Snape?" I sneered, my words laced with all the venom I could muster. "Admiring your master's handiwork, are you?"

Snape's face was unreadable. He didn't move a muscle—not a flinch, not a flicker. His obsidian eyes remained sharp, drilling into mine as he finally raised his gaze from the Mark. He looked at me the way someone might examine a cracked mirror: analytical, grim, like he could see too much.

"I don't understand how you can murder the one man who trusted you," I continued, "who gave everything for this school—for us! I don't understand why you're still here, pretending like you belong anywhere near—"

"Be silent." Snape's voice was low and final, cutting through my tirade like a blade. His words didn't knock the wind out of my anger, but they held a force I couldn't ignore. I gritted my teeth, glaring at him.

"I will not be silent," I spat. "You don't get to lecture me—not about trust, not about consequences. This—" I jabbed a finger at the dreadful Mark on my arm, "—is this what you want, Snape? You're the reason why we're in this mess. Voldemort, Dumbledore… everything. We followed you, trusted people like you, and look what it led to."

"Yes, that's right, Harry," Voldemort's voice hissed through the dark recesses of my mind. His presence was threaded through me, igniting a cold sweat over my skin, making it impossible to think clearly, impossible to fight back. "Snape is a fool, isn't he? Always pretending to know better. Always playing both sides."

"Get out," I whispered under my breath, my voice hoarse with exhaustion. My hand instinctively pressed against my scar as if to muffle him, as though that cursed lightning bolt could hold him back. "Get out of my head."

But Voldemort was relentless. His words tunnelled deeper into my psyche, burrowing like an infestation. "Maybe you can teach him a lesson," he continued, that mocking amusement tinged with malice. "You've wanted to, haven't you? Haven't you, Harry? Haven't you doubted him from the start?"

I clenched my fists, gasping for breath as the pain in my forehead flared. It felt like someone was carving my skull open, the fire of doubt spilling out, ready to consume me whole. But Snape… Snape wasn't fooled. He was watching me, his dark eyes piercing and unyielding. Without a word, he stood abruptly.

The Mark. The Dark Mark. It had flared on my arm moments ago. I hadn't even realised how tightly I was clutching it, trying in vain to smother the pain, until I felt Snape's hand close around my other arm. He didn't say anything, of course. Snape rarely wasted words on explanations when the sharp edge of action would suffice. His grip was cold, yet commanding. With stunning, deliberate strength, he hauled me to my feet.

Or tried to.

"I—I can't—" I stammered, my voice cracking under the weight of panic. My knees refused to cooperate. It felt as though my entire body was rebelling, every nerve overwhelmed by the agonising pain from my scar that stabbed through my skull in relentless waves. My legs buckled, and my vision tunnelled. I stumbled forward, Snape's grip keeping me grounded as he propelled me toward the Great Hall. It loomed over us like the entrance to a tomb. My chest grew tighter with every step. My heart raced, erratic. I tried to focus, but the pain in my scar made it impossible to hold on to coherent thoughts.

Snape didn't speak. He was silent as ever, his face giving nothing away. But his hand was firm on my arm, steadying me even as my legs felt made of jelly.

I couldn't go through with this. I couldn't face him. Not like this. My lungs clenched as panic began to bubble up in my throat, the already unbearable weight of the moment crushing me from every side.

Snape, noticing the frozen hesitation in my footsteps, acted without hesitation. With one smooth, fluid motion, he shoved me. Not hard, but firm enough to force me forward.

And then the doors were creaking open.

The world slowed.