Cut and Captured

The soft scent of vanilla, lilac and hazel witch seed overwhelmed Harry’s senses, and even in his half-sleep, he was quite certain that he was in the Hogwarts infirmary. He should wake up. Something must have happened—he knew that scent. Someone had given him Balmpeau, a salve which caused skin regrowth. The aroma was strong enough to have been recently applied—liberally, it seemed, for the whole right side of his body vibrated as his skin mended, although the tingling sensation gradually seemed to be wearing away.

How long had he been asleep?

Harry rubbed his eyes with his left hand, squinting as he reached out to the nightstand beside him to grab his glasses which were not there; then, much to his confusion, he opened his eyes fully only to see the blurry red overhanging curtain of his fourposter in Gryffindor Tower.

‘Ron?’ he said quietly, beginning to sit up only to wince and lower himself back down with a groan. At that moment he realised that although his mouth was dry, there was an aftertaste of lemon parsnips on the back of his tongue. Filigree’s Fillup. The blood-replenishing potion. Slowly, Harry pushed himself up, letting out another groan as he did so, and propped himself up higher on the pillow so that he was nearly sitting upright and could rest his head back against the wooden headboard.

Why wasn’t he in the hospital wing?

He felt as though he had fallen from his broom and crashed into the Quidditch pitch as he had done in his third year. Not that he could recall much from that day, neither the actual fall nor his impact with the ground, only the sore limbs he had had afterwards, even after being subjected to the whole cabinet of potions, salves and other concoctions that Madame Pomfrey had on stock just for him.

What he had done to land himself in this much pain he did not remember, but he did know that he had not been flying. All Quidditch matches had been put off for the Tournament, which meant—

The Triwizard Tournament.

He was supposed to compete in the Third Task, the maze.

Why in Merlin’s name wasn’t he in the hospital wing?

‘Nefeli, where are you?’ Harry said hesitantly, his voice going up at the end, disoriented, as was often the case when he had experienced a severe bleed—it must have been severe, the signs of it were overwhelming. How did he get back to the dormitory? What treatment had he been administered? How many doses had he already taken?

‘Calm yourself, Harry, I am here, but you must calm yourself, and quickly, dear,’ said a voice as tranquil and smooth as the surface of a stone in cool water.

‘What happened—how much did I lose?’

‘Darling, you were injured and diligently attended to, I can assure you,’ Nefeli told him.

‘Where are you? Where is everyone?’

‘I am encased in my pouch on the bed, one bed over from yours. But Harry, all is not as it seems—'

‘Why am I not in the hospital wing?’ Harry’s fingers trembled as he peeled up the right-arm sleeve of his robe; the skin was tinged red with dried blood, and lots of it. ‘I should—I should be in the hospital wing, shouldn’t I?’

‘Harry,’ said Nefeli calmly, albeit in a somber tone. ‘I know how bewildered you must be. Please, breathe with me. You must calm yourself.’

Harry knew on some level she was right, knew that he must still be in the middle of a potion cycle—was it the second or the third?—and was only confused because of the blood loss. His memory would return to him once the aftereffects of the potions had worn off and he could take the Forget-Me-Not Tonic in the golden bottle, then all would be clear. Harry mimicked the deep breaths Nefeli hissed out for his comfort and before long he was unclenching the fists he had not even realised he had made.

‘That’s it, darling,’ said Nefeli soothingly. ‘Now, there is someone else here. A wizard who is not a friend. A wizard you know. They do not know of me, not really, and you should not tell them more than is—’

‘There is someone else here?’ Harry whispered, but although he looked around, squinting, he could not make out another figure. The only place which was outside of his blurry vision was the space behind his right shoulder, past the fourposter curtain which was loosely bunched up in its golden tassel. He had just started to lean forward in order to peer past it when a sleek, black cane shot out from the other side, blocking his chest from moving any further.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ came a silky voice from behind the curtain, and the hair on Harry’s neck stood on end.

‘You!’ Harry exclaimed, pushing himself away from the blond-haired man in front of him as much as possible, his pain, in his shock, momentarily forgotten.

‘Good morning to you as well, I’m sure,’ the man said sarcastically. ‘I must say you do make a lot of fuss.’

‘What are you doing here! What right do you have coming into Gryffindor Tower?’

‘English, Potter,’ tutted Lucius Malfoy, and Harry gave a confused look, his eyes wide.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Harry hissed at the man.

‘As articulate as always, Potter. Snake got your tongue, has it?’ Malfoy said mockingly, and Harry, furious at the man’s presence, briskly shoved away the cane pointed at him with his good hand only for its holder to rap it against his injured arm. It was hard enough to make him wince at the contact and clutch at his elbow. ‘No one said you could touch, boy.’

Nothing made sense. There were wards. Rules. Even with all the visitors to the school— champion supporters there to catch the Triwizard Tournament, curious wizards and witches from across Britain and beyond—there were still restrictions; one couldn’t simply roam about the corridors, break into the student’s private sleeping quarters.

How had Lucius Malfoy even made it past the Fat Lady?

‘You can’t just—just come into Gryffindor Tower!’

Lucius Malfoy glanced around the room. ‘Gryffindor Tower? I’m glad you think so, that was what he was going for after all,’ he said, clearly meaning to taunt the boy. Harry’s expression hardened at that. ‘He thought you might appreciate it. I don’t see what all the allure is myself, but—ah, yes, you haven’t got your glasses on, have you?’

Much to Harry’s surprise, the elder Malfoy held up his spectacles. Not without first casting the man a puzzled glance, Harry hesitantly reached out with his good arm, took his glasses, and placed them on the bridge of his nose before cradling his injured arm once again. He blinked furiously, and once his eyes had adjusted, he let himself really take in the room around him.

On the surface, everything in the boys’ dormitory was as it should be, albeit somewhat neater than they had left it that morning—the fourposters all in a ring, a mess of his mates belongings tucked and tumbling out from the trundles underneath the frames, assorted robes hanging from hooks beside the beds on the opposite side of the night tables, Neville’s Remembrall half-rolled under the dresser across from him, filled with red smoke as always, a few socks were still hanging around the grate of the stove, and—Harry’s breath hitched in his chest.

There were no windows anywhere in the tower, and the colours—something wasn’t right about them, they were all a shade off.

‘Nefeli—’

‘You must remain calm, dear.’

‘But, Nefeli!—’ the panic the snake had helped him to quell only a few moments before had returned at full force.

‘You have been taken by wizards, wizards who wear grim masks—’

No, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t have left Hogwarts. It was impossible.

‘It’s impossible!’

His eyes shot towards Lucius Malfoy who was eyeing him with an amused look on his face and had at some point withdrawn his cane. Harry felt faint.

‘It’s not possible.’

Harry’s right hand began to shake as he touched the crimson bedding, staring at it unblinking. The texture was all wrong, the lion on the emblem was facing the opposite direction.

He suddenly felt flushed, like he would retch at any moment. ‘This isn’t Gryffindor Tower,’ he said slowly, in disbelief.

All at once, the pain flooded back into him, the stress of his current situation upsetting the delicate balance of the potions he had taken. He should have remained calm, he was working himself up, sabotaging his own equilibrium when it was not yet stable, and he knew even before the scent hit him that blood was running from his nose, and it was flowing onto his trembling hand and he was fighting, trying to push away Lucius Malfoy who was himself trying to force a potion down his throat only for it to be spilled onto the bedding and Lucius Malfoy was cursing at him for his idiocy.

‘I am trying to help you, stupid boy!’

Malfoy raised his wand, pointing it directly at Harry. A light emitted from the tip, dancing into the air in little swirls that ranged from lilac to plum-coloured as they stretched into the air, humming with energy as it pulsed and turned, and Harry found himself unable to look away. Without realising it, Harry dutifully opened his mouth, and a potion whose taste he knew but whose name he could not remember was poured down his throat, followed by a second, and then a third which was … most undoubtedly … a sleeping draught…