The cell Harry sat in was small, damp, and owing to the late hour of the evening, dark. It represented the epitome of the classic dungeon, and if the situation hadn't been so dire, Harry would have been amused that Voldemort would go for such a cliché. Then again, he mused, it wasn't exactly the Dark Lord's style to supply his involuntary guests with any degree of comfort. His mind wandered back to how he had ended up in the miserable dungeon cell.
The plan for the raid on Malfoy Manor had been flawless—at least in theory. All of their reports suggested that with Death Eater activity focused on assassinating government figures and hunting down the Order, defenses would be minimal, especially since Malfoy Manor wasn't considered a vital target. Still, they had hoped to find something, anything, really, that would help them defeat Voldemort, or at least slow him down.
Ultimately, they had walked right into a trap. A very elaborate, highly planned trap that reeked of one thing: treachery. Someone had betrayed the Order and relayed the details of their plans. More than a few Death Eaters had been waiting for them, and the Dark Lord himself had even made a brief appearance.
Most of the strike team was dead. Harry assumed that even the traitor had been killed in the ensuing firefight. He couldn't care less. Had the traitor, whoever it was, really known what Voldemort was like, they should have seen it coming. On the other hand, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Voldemort's nemesis, and the last best hope of the wizarding world, was too good a prize to leave for dead. No, they had taken him. It was with no small amount of pride that Harry realized it had taken a full dozen of them to take him down. Since he had graduated from Hogwarts, he had become an impressive duelist in his own right, but with the odds stacked against him as they were, he had been bested.
Hence the reason that he now found himself stuck in a small cell, somewhere in one of Voldemort's hideouts. The place certainly didn't seem like it belonged to a Death Eater manor, though what they typically kept hidden in their basements, he didn't know for sure. A low moan brought his attention back to the present . . . and his current cell mate.
He had no idea why Bellatrix Lestrange was in the cell with him, nor did he really care. When he had first found out he had company, his hopes had soared, until he realized just who his cell mate was with the aid of the dim light of the early morning.
As she lay on the floor unconscious, he had considered killing her, but that had been precluded when other Death Eaters had forcibly dragged her out of the cell. He didn't know what she had done, or why Voldemort was torturing her, and honestly, he couldn't care less, after the sort of things she'd done—but her screams could be heard even down into his cell, sometimes deep into the night. It was disturbing to say the least, and caused him to wonder what she had done to warrant such treatment by her own allies.
The cell door creaked open. Why was it that most doors in the wizarding world creaked? Harry wondered absently, finding it odd that he would think of that sort of thing while in this predicament. The Death Eaters dumped Bellatrix's body back into the cell unceremoniously. When she didn't move for a few minutes, morbid curiosity got the better of Harry.
With baited breath, Harry inched his way over to where he guessed she was lying, hesitant to actually touch her. When he got close enough, he could hear her breathing. He let out a sigh, whether it was of relief of anticipation, he didn't know. He didn't know why he was so anxious to know that she was alive; he had tried his level best to kill her the few times they had met.
Maybe it was just the fact that misery loved company. As evil as she was, she was right now even more miserable than he was. At any rate, he felt absurdly glad she was still alive, though he couldn't fathom why.
He didn't know if he was going stir crazy, or if the isolation was getting to him, but somehow he felt the need to talk, about anything. The weather. Her thoughts on Fudge as a minister. The color of Voldemort's underpants. Breaking the ice would be the hard part though. He said the first thing that came to mind.
"So, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" As soon as the words had left Harry's mouth, he felt like slapping himself.
That had to be the most inappropriately used line of the decade, scratch that, of the century. It wasn't even meant as a come-on, simply as a query as to why she, one of Voldemort's most loyal, most brutal followers, was in a cell with the Boy-Who-Lived, and, from the sounds of it, being tortured. She couldn't like being treated like this, could she?
He had heard about people liking their relationships a little rough, but he couldn't imagine even she was that twisted. He didn't really expect her to reply, either because of who he was, or because she couldn't, so her low chuckle caught him by surprise.
"What's it to you, Potter?"
Harry leaned back against the wall. From the way her breathing sounded, raspy, heavy, and forced, she was having trouble getting air into her lungs. Talking must be rather painful, he surmised. "Just wondering how one of Voldemort's best landed herself in here with me. Did you win the grand prize at the Death Eater lottery for a weekend with the charming Harry P.?"
She laughed. It was a sound that was rather frightening coming from her parched throat. "I screwed up, Potter. That's why I'm here. I'd think you of all people knew what the dark lord is like."
"Yeah, I know that dark idiot." Harry smirked, though she couldn't see it in the darkness. "Which is why I'm surprised you're still alive."
Bellatrix coughed again. "How so?"
"Well, I reckoned Voldemort was pretty quick to dispose of failures . . . permanently. Apparently, the old chap is getting soft in his old age."
The broken woman laughed again, tapering off into a wracking cough. "He's anything but soft, Potter. Failures are never cheap with the Dark Lord. Betrayal . . . you will actually live to regret it."
It was Harry's turn to arch a curious eyebrow. Not that it mattered in the darkness; the gesture was lost on the dark witch. "You, betray Voldemort? That I find hard to believe."
"Believe it, Potter. Now, why would you even care? The last time I saw you, you were hurling killing curses at me, over in Diagon Alley."
Harry remembered the battle. It had been a few months back, before major population centers had fallen under Voldemort's control. Diagon Alley had come under attack, and the Order had responded. Harry had been there. That battle had been where they lost Fred and Neville. Neville's loss had been especially hard on them all, since the boy had taken a curse meant for Harry.
At the time, the Boy-Who-Lived had been too wrapped up in his duel with Bellatrix, ignoring the din of combat all around him. "Just curious what landed you of all people in here," he said.
"Ah." The single syllable was laden with sarcasm, something that she, in her condition, shouldn't even have been capable of producing. "Come to watch the wicked witch die, eh?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry snorted in disdain. "I'm not exactly here by choice."
"I could tell," she shot back in the same tone. "I mean, the chains were kind of a giveaway."
"What's with the sane act today, Lestrange? Insanity and baby Bella not doing too well on the wrong end of the torture room? Or maybe," Harry gasped dramatically, "maybe Voldemort tortured you back into sanity!"
"What are you driveling about, Potter?"