Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Lord of War

Amazing Pain

by tacitusheros 8 reviews

"I wonder if this world has ever known peace. Is it foolishness that makes men dedicate their lives the fallacy of peace, or simply a man's despreate need for a greater good?"

Category: Harry Potter - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Crossover,Sci-fi - Characters: Dumbledore,Harry,Hermione,Moody,Voldemort - Warnings: [!] [V] [?] - Published: 2009-03-20 - Updated: 2009-03-20 - 5462 words

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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Lord of War

Chapter 3 – Amazing Pain

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Ministry of Magic, London
November 1st, 1999

Hermione Granger walked primly into the Ministry of Magic. The polished wooden floors glimmered under the light shining through the magical windows and fire on the ever roaring fireplaces.

Today the Ministry was packed more so than usual. Witches and wizards scurried along about their business and with quite a bit of chatter.

Hermione barely made it down to the ninth level of the Ministry of Magic before she was approached by one of her female colleagues, Hannah Abbot. The women had dark brown hair and looked rather plain even in comparison to the ordinary but shapely Hermione Granger.

“Morning, Hermione.” Hannah could see her brown-haired friend looked rather at ease despite what was taking place in the wizarding world. “I take it you haven’t read today’s paper yet, have you?”

Hermione shook her head. “You know I don’t read that rubbish. What is it today? More propaganda on how the Ministry is doing such a bang-up job catching known Death Eaters?”

When her friend frowned at her light-hearted joke Hermione figured it must have been something quite serious. “What is it, Hannah?”

“Here, I think you should take a look for yourself, Hermione.” She had just made it to her office when Hermione took the said article from her friend’s grasp. Opening it revealed an old photo of a long lost friend, Harry Potter. Despite being it being an animated photo, the 15-year-old Harry was near motionless and stoic, except for the occasional blinking of his eyes.

Under the black and white photo it read:
- - -

Mass Casualties at Azkaban Prison and the Escape of Harry James Potter

In the bloodstained aftermath of the horror at Azkaban Prison, the Ministry of Magic pulls itself together and counts the numbers of lives lost, the amount of property destroyed and, most of all, tends to the scarred psyche of a ravaged nation.

Evidence mounts that You-Know-Who -- the greatest Dark Lord to live in recent centuries – is suspected to have traveled across the Atlantic from the UK to wreak havoc on Azkaban, the once assumed well-fortified and unreachable prison. Little is known at this point as all Ministry officials who survived yesterday’s ordeal remain tight-lipped. The MoM is not exactly keen on the matter of the investigation of yesterday’s fierce battle. The Azkaban attack bore many trademarks of the extremist faction known as the Death Eaters, loyal followers of the fallen Dark Lord.

Though the return of the Dark Lord is still a topic of much debate, one can only look at the evidence that proves this accusation could indeed hold true. Who are the Death Eaters rallying behind? If not the Dark Lord himself, who could holds such sway over these unrelenting terrorists?

The ever-present Order of the Phoenix is also known to be involved in said conflict, while many of its members still remain unknown. When asked to comment on the Order’s helping hand in the conflict, Minister Scrimgeour had this to say about the vigilantes: “It is not the prerogative of this Ministry to cite or apprehend members of this vigilante group [The Order of the Phoenix], but rather accept the aid of an ally in a joint effort to capture all Death Eaters. While I certainly do not condone their actions, the Order has proven itself a reliable source of intelligence and a supply of competent wands.”

Is it merely chance or prudent planning that the Dark Lord’s arguably greatest enemy has gone missing?

Today Ministry intelligence sources publicly revealed that one Harry James Potter has not been accounted for amongst those dead or injured. Speculation suggests Potter, in fact, escaped from the island sometime during the battle. How he could manage such a feat is still a topic of debate. Apparition is neigh-impossible from the island because of its distance from any other body of land. Portkeys can be ruled out also, due to the ancient anti-portkey runes instilled onto the very island itself.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been flooded with letters of outrage and panic. This is the second time, in the last decade alone; a prisoner has managed to escape-

- - -
Hermione tore her eyes away from the article and reread the date. “This is today’s paper,” she stated unnecessarily. “This means. . .”

Before Hannah realized what was going on, Hermione was already out of the office and heading back to the Ministry lobby as quickly as she could.

Hermione grabbed a handful of floo powder before she entered the departing fireplace. With a few choice words and a blaze of green fire she was transported to the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“I was wondering when you would finally show up, Ms. Granger,” said the aged, blue-eyed man who sat serenely behind his neat wooden desk.

“Then you know why I am here, Dumbledore,” she exclaimed. “Tell me it’s true. Tell me that Harry has escaped. You’re hiding him, right? I want to see him!”

Dumbledore did not smile, and the twinkle that was so often present in his eyes never came. For a moment he looked every bit of his 152 years. This was a man who knew what drove powerful wizards to the edge of darkness, having once skirted the edge himself. He understood the skill and talent one must had, for he was renowned for it, and embraced it.

For years Dumbledore had tried to sculpt and mold the young boy into the next champion of the Light. His methods of doing so were unorthodox, unethical, and borderline-illegal. Sacrificing a part of his morality was a small price to pay. The wizarding world deserved a worthy champion, someone who could lead them into the future in ways he himself never could. In the end, he could not save his protégé from the disastrous situation of his imprisonment.

It was only a matter of time before he and Harry Potter crossed paths once more on the road of destiny. Two powerful men such as themselves would either become reluctant allies or sworn enemies. The choice was up to the wayward Potter.

“I’m afraid, Ms. Granger, that you have misunderstood the situation. I do not know the whereabouts of Harry at this moment. He had simply vanished from the island. The only consolation I have is that he was not captured by Voldemort, for I had a brief run-in with the Dark Lord myself, before he too departed. Harry is, if anything, a resourceful young man,” Dumbledore said, offering the young witch a seat which she gladly took.

Hermione took the offered seat. “Then you know what this means! He has to found before the Ministry captures him again!”

Dumbledore smiled gently “Which is why we will work together to find Mr. Potter.”

She looked skeptical at that statement. She had learned long ago that people always had their own agendas, hidden or otherwise. “And what do you plan on doing with Harry if we find him?” she asked, “You and I both know that hell would freeze over before the Ministry would give him a proper trial. So what will you do?”

Hermione knew that with the deaths of Cedric Diggory and Barty Crouch Jr., his chances of a fair trial were nil. Amos Diggory was now the Head of Magical Law Enforcement with the promotion of Amelia Bones to Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and Crouch Sr. was inducted into the Wizengamot. The now heirless Amos Diggory and Crouch Sr. would rather see Harry burn then allow him a just trial.

“Harry is an adult wizard. I’m certain that we can convince the Minister to allow the use of Veritaserum for the trial. With the political backing of the Order and your impressive work at the Department of Mysteries, we can back him into a corner where he’ll have little choice in the matter.”

“That will never happen, sir,” Hermione said with a snort, “Harry and I are both thoroughly educated in magical Britain’s penal system. He knows as well as I do that he will never be given a just trial with the current administration in office. There’re too many grudges held against him in the Ministry; so many that he'd likely have more charges added to his already extensive criminal record. And that's not even considering how many toes he's stepped on in the Wizengamot.”

Dumbledore was silent for several moments, contemplating. He needed Hermione on his side if he wanted to make contact with Harry. There were very few people left in the world that Harry Potter trusted before his imprisonment, none of which included himself. He had no delusions however; Dumbledore understood that Harry had lost nearly all confidence in him, and with his sentence in Azkaban, he doubted they would ever see eye to eye with one another again.

Harry had grown greatly unpredictable and enigmatic during his last year at Hogwarts. So much so that he seemed an entirely different person. The only consistency was his friendship with Ms. Granger. Her persistence and loyalty was what Dumbledore counted on now. If Harry would not listen to him, then perhaps it was wise to entrust in Hermione the secrets that he had yet to reveil to Harry. Only 20 years old and she was already an Unspeakable in the Ministry. Her theories on magic helped not only the Order, but the wizarding world as a whole.

“The Ministry and Wizengamont are of little matter, Ms. Granger,” he said, shocking the young witch. Dumbledore had forgone all delusions and was putting all of his cards on the table. “The reason we must find Harry is of greater importance then I could ever express. There are less than a handful of people alive who knows what Harry truly is. A secret I have not shared with another in many years. A secret I must tell you now.”

Hermione had never seen the headmaster so solemn. His voice was barely above a whisper, but she could him clearly, as if he was speaking into her ear. His half lidded blue eyes were serene yet void of that special twinkle.

“Tell me, Hermione. What are your thoughts on prophecies?” Dumbledore asked.

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Location Unplottable
November 1st, 1999

Lord Voldemort stalked into his sanctum with a scowl plastered on his serpentine face, red eyes flashed with irritation. His scorn was because of one person, Harry Potter.

The chamber was vast and eloquent, boasting a dark foreboding beauty fit for a Dark Lord. The furnishing was various shades of grays, blacks, and greens, with hints of reds spread about. The chamber glowed softly under the many floating candle lights, casting wandering shadows everywhere.

This was the main chamber of Lucius Malfoy’s luxurious ancestral home. The Dark Lord had effectively begun to it as the main hub for his inner circle dealings not only because of its dark beauty, but also because of the ancient, powerful wards and charms placed around the castle-like mansion. In this manor, no one had to worry about allies compromising the location, or enemies breaching the wards.

“Report, Lucius!” Voldemort barked from his exquisite throne.

Malfoy was currently the only person in the large chamber with Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy had flowing, flawless blonde hair that reached just past his shoulders. His face was sharp and perfectly framed his family’s trademark gray eyes. All other Death Eaters only had restricted access into his ancestral home unless the Dark Lord deemed otherwise.

“My Lord, the Ministry of Magic is in mass disarray as expected. They have taken a serious blow to their forces as well. Last head count on those who died on the island was about two hundred.”

“What of the Order? Has there been word of Dumbledore’s activities over the last few hours?” asked Voldemort.

“The Order has been tight-lipped since the attack. I presume they have been dealt a large blow to their forces as well and are still recuperating.”

Voldemort didn’t look pleased. He had spent five long years of lying low, building his army, and all the while allowing the people of the wizarding world to believe he was still dead. Now that Dumbledore had hard evidence to prove otherwise things were going to get more complicated.

“Step forward, Lucius.”

Malfoy hesitated for a brief moment then proceeded up the green carpeted stairs to his master’s throne. Voldemort took hold of his left arm firmly and shoved the sleeve of his expensive robes back revealing his pale skin and Dark Mark tattoo. Voldemort pressed his wand onto the Dark Mark and trickled magic into it. Lucius swallowed his pain, as he did not want to appear weak in such close proximity to his Lord.

The candles flickered noisily when a black cloud of smoke circled around the room before finally dieing down a few feet from the throne. Out of the smoke stepped a tired and visibly injured Bellatrix LeStrange who was clutching her wrapped shoulder.

“Milord,” she greeted.

Voldemort could see the woman was in pain, but she hid it well. She was perhaps the strongest wand under his command and his staunchest supporter. Bellatrix’s beauty and grace were plentiful, and her power was tempered only by her sociopath tendencies.

Before the Dark Lord himself, she was regulated to the role of a common wand, begrudgedly accepted as elite. Pureblood witches were but vassals to breed the next generation of Lords and Ladies. Regardless of the mindset of her fellow purebloods, she had risen in both fame and notoriety on tenacity alone.

“Your report, Bella.”

“W-We have sustained a moderate amount of deaths at Azkaban. We’ve lost a hundred or so people, half of which were only first timers. Eighteen were captured.” Bellatrix ground her teeth angrily as pain shot through her shoulder; deep red blood from her wound soaked its white wrappings. “Not to mention the twenty three dead prisoners whom all of this was for.”

Voldemort’s eye twitched at that. Twenty three men were killed in the span of two minutes undetected. It was an impressive feat to say the least. Sure, he could accomplish the same task just as effectively, but that would be because of years of study and experience on his part. What did Potter have? Raw talent beyond anything he’d ever seen before.

‘A worthy adversary, indeed,’ He thought to himself. ‘It would be foolish to let his already substantial power to go unchecked. The boy needs to be dealt with, and soon. His skill barely scratches the surface of my own. But is it enough to defeat me?’ The prophecy suggested Harry Potter was the one would have the power to defeat him. But without the full prophecy there was no way of knowing for sure. ‘As it stand, he‘s too big a threat to be allowed to live.’

“My Lord, I’ve detained someone who I think you’ll find quite . . . beneficial,” Bellatrix said with intrigue.

“Oh? And did you forget the lessons I gave on thinking?”

Bellatrix bit her tongue. She lowered her head to hide the distain she felt at that question. Her Lord often checked his Death Eaters, making sure they knew their place, never allowing them to become too overconfident, too overzealous. But she wanted to prove that she was so much more then a tool on his belt. She had an astounding amount of magical power that had most pureblood men green with envy. The only thing holding her back the foolish notion of tradition, and its concepts of what a woman should be in their constricted world. Purebloods were nothing without tradition.

Voldemort waved his hand callously for her to continue. “I’ve procured the alchemist Nicolas Flamel. The old fool was more then a handful after I dealt with Dumbledore’s stooge, Mad Eye The alchemist is bound to the holding cells below. If I recall, you once mentioned an interest in some research the man was conducting. Forgive me if I am wrong, my Lord.”

Both Death Eaters could see their master was indeed pleased with Bella’s apprehension of the ancient alchemist. A small satisfactory grin adorned his wicked face.

“You have done well, both of you,” he said dismissively. “I expect your full recovery in two day, Bellatrix. Lucius, I want you to run damage control on the setback at Azkaban. Inform our American brethren that I personally request an audience with all of the commanders. Be sure to inform them that this is but a momentary setback.”

Bellatrix acknowledged his order with a curt nod. Before she apparated away, the Dark Lord stopped her, saying, “I want Flamel brought before me when he recovers. Have a full medical team put to his care. I need him in full health if he is to be of any use.”

A moment later both Death Eaters apparated away and left the Dark Lord to his thoughts.

In the silence that followed Voldemort contemplated this older and greatly changed Harry Potter. He had known for quite some time that the boy held great potential. He even contemplated asking the boy to join him in his conquests. Suck thought remained just that though. Harry Potter was no more likely to join him than Dumbledore was to announce becoming the next Dark Lord. No, the only option was to eliminate the boy.

All those old rumors of Potter’s skill were running through Voldemort’s rattled mind. Something fundamental had changed the boy. Potter was not truly one with the light. What had changed, and how it came about, he did not know.

Voldemort supposed the mystery behind the enigmatic Harry Potter would forever be buried in the events of the past.

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Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
November 10th, 1993

“Again!” a voice shouted angrily!

Alistar “Mad Eye” Moody stood poised in an advanced dueling stance. In front of him struggled a tired Harry Potter, panting, sweating and worse for wear. The boy was battered and bruised, sporting swollen lumps of red flesh, and fresh blood seeping from various open cuts.

“I think that’ll be all for today, lad. We’ve been at this for hours. At this rate you’ll be bed ridden for a week,” Moody placated.

“I don’t care.” Harry’s voice was rough and scratchy. He rose shaking to one knee, wincing in pain. His cloths were all but torn to pieces, his chest and feet bare, only his trousers remained some-what intact.

“What are you trying to prove, boy? The reason we’re here – the reason I’ve decided to train you was so you would have a fighting chance of surviving this tournament. You’ve thrown yourself into this training beyond that any boy your age would dare, and that’s commendable, to say the least. But I must insist we slow things down a bit.”

“I don’t care,” Harry repeated. “Hit me again, Moody.”

Moody could not comprehend what he was being told. “What are you getting at? I’ve been hexing you for the last three hours, as you’ve asked, and for what? What in Merlin’s name are you trying to prove?”

Behind Harry’s façade of annoyance lay hidden his ever growing cunning. On the outside, Harry was a batter, bruised, and annoyed mess, but within, he was grinning from ear to ear.

“My glasses,” Harry began, still in visible pain.

“Glasses?” Moody asked.

“A few day’s ago I realized they were affecting my vision. I didn’t understand why at first. I was going to ask for a new pair until I realized something. My eyes . . . there was nothing wrong with them. I could see just as clearly with them off as I once did with them on.”

Moody was silent, thinking. He never noticed before that Harry did not have on his glasses. The thick, black, round pair of Harry Potter glasses of his.

“I had the same look on my face that you have now. I didn’t understand it either. That night you hit me with that Italian hex, the one that seizures the muscles . . .”

“The fimbromsy curse, yes. It tears down the muscles while regenerating them simultaneously. It’s a very painful and dark curse. I wouldn’t have used it if you didn’t insist on using more lethal curses, Potter.”

Harry waved him off. “That’s beside the point. What I’m saying is that’s when I first noticed it. I could hardly move the rest of the day after that curse. It felt as if my body was on fire. But during all of that pain, I noticed I could see things clearer; see details in things I never seen before. I began hearing things I never heard and I could even smell the sweat and grime from my body. I though I was going mad, until the pain stopped, and I still had these sensations.”

Moody was taken aback. What was hearing he never thought possible. Harry had come a long ways in the short amount of time allotted to train. Few wizards could ever hope to be as naturally in tune with their body and magic as Harry was; he included. And it was then that Mad Eye began to understand what set this young man apart from the rest of the lot.

He thought quickly then asked, “So you don’t feel pain, even now?”

“No, the pain is still here. It always is. But at the same time I feel . . . more alert, aware of things. I feel . . . good.” Harry’s face, still contorted in pain, cracked a thin smile. He could see the fine red veins in Moody’s real eye and the smooth marble-like magical eye that was locked on him.

Moody swiped his hip flask from his coat and took a long swig, smacking his lips from the strong taste of its contents. Harry’s gazed remained focused on him.

“Firewhiskey, lad.” Moody decided to explain for the first time. “Perhaps one of the few things that keeps my sanity these days.”

Harry grimaced. “That’s not firewhiskey.”


“Firewhiskey smells of peppermint schnapps, sugar, and muggle Brandi. My aunt drinks Brandi heavily, that’s how I know the smell, and how I know that that isn’t firewhiskey.”

Surprised by Harry’s accusing tone, Moody quickly responded, not missing a beat. “It would be best if I keep my medical complications private, Potter.”

Harry accepted that. Whatever ailment that required Mad Eye to swig from his hipflask nearly every half hour was none of business, for now.

If anyone could understand the importance of privacy, it was certainly Harry. However, given the last few weeks spent training with the old man, Harry couldn’t help but feel as if the Auror was slightly overestimated. Here was a veteran Auror who was quickly becoming surpassed, in terms of skill and power, by a 14 year old boy. Harry surmised it was because of Moody’s old age. That or the wizarding world was sorely lacking.

“Pain induced by the curses helps you develop these . . . senses then?” After a nod from Harry, then, “Never have I heard such a thing as this. I can’t begin to imagine what this could possibly mean. Are these effects constant or do they fade away over time?”

Harry shook his head. “Like I said, it’s improving over time. The more pain and the more I endure, the better I feel afterwards. Right now I feel like shite, but it’ll fade soon, and I’ll feel better tomorrow than I did this morning,” Harry said.

“This morning I felt strong.” Harry continued. “Stronger then I ever felt. It’s strange . . . I feel so aware of everything now. The light, the sounds of the spell as the leave the wand, and even the metallic taste of my own blood. It’s all much ‘clearer’ now than ever before.”

“Have you noticed it?” Harry asked. “Either you’re going easier on me as we go along, or you just can’t keep up with me anymore.”

Moody had noticed. Harry skill was growing each day. His control with his magic was approaching flawless. Harry’s physique filled in quite a bit during the weeks of training. He had put on quite a few pounds, almost all muscle. Though slightly short for his age, his body was well built; a lean, flexible frame of muscle and power.

Moody had taken notice of Harry’s new confidence and thirst for knowledge. Though still a humble young man, Harry had also developed a passion to prove himself to others. The Gryffindor qualities were fast becoming transparent and in its place were those akin to that of a Slytherin. Moody always came up with some reason why Harry could not participate in the practical portions of Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Young Malfoy and Potter had formed some sort of bizarre truce between themselves. Though he could see veiled animosity they held for one another underneath their apathy. Moody would have to keep watch on the two less Harry did something he would regret. His skill was well beyond that of the Malfoy heir.

Harry had already covered defense, charms, transfiguration, and dark arts over the last few weeks in limbo time. Harry could very well best any seventh-year with all he knew now. His silent spell casting was coming along nicely as was his knowledge of arithmacy and runes.

Harry focused almost exclusively on spells that were usefully on the battlefield. Such spells were rare in the standard Hogwarts curriculum. Moody had to acquire text from other magical institutions such as Salem, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons, and Galileo. All proved to be slightly beneficial, each in their own right.

While Harry did not know some of the basic spells that wizards used daily, he supposed learning such spells would prove useless and counterproductive of their ‘limited’ time.

“Yes, I have noticed,” he agreed. “You attribute this to your theory?”

“Yes. I just proved that today. My senses and control is getting better but I feel it’s peaking. I’m growing too comfortable with these curses.”

“Comfortable?” Moody gawked.

“The first time I was hit with that curse –fimbromsy, I thought my skin was burning off from the inside out. It felt like hell. The day afterwards, when I regained consciousness, I felt better; though still numb from the pain. Yesterday I stayed conscious through the curse, in spite of the pain. Today, I’m still alert and coherent only minutes after the curse has been lifted.” Harry said.

“I’m adapting to it, you see. I need something different – something more- that’ll push me,” Harry said.

Moody thought carefully before coming to a decision. “So the muscle searing curse dose not hurt as much as it once did a few days ago, and now you need a more potent curse to somehow kick your magic into building your physical senses?” Moody asked rhetorically.

“Exactly . . .”

“Then there’s only one curse that’ll give you what you’re looking for.” Moody grinned wickedly.

Harry knew the curse Moody was getting at. It was a few weeks before, only a few days real time, that Moody had showed the fourth years the unforgivable curses. The curse at hand had specifically made many of his classmates cringe as they witnessed a large spider tortured before their eyes. Hermione had seethed at the barbarity of it all while Neville Longbottom looked tormented by the whole ordeal.

“The cruciatus curse?” Harry smiled back.

Harry had, of course, also come to this conclusion. It was his idea from the start. Making the ex-Auror believe it was his idea was not a complicated matter. The effortlessness of it all was almost baffling to the young wizard in training.

Having trained with Mad Eye over the last few weeks gave Harry a close look inside the man’s personality. What Harry had come to find was that Mad Eye Moody was, if anything, a passionate and driven man, but also very simpleminded. He often did not comprehend many of the spells Harry studied, choosing to drill mostly dark arts spells.

For an ex-Auror Moody was disturbingly limited to standard spells, dark arts, and transfiguration, all of which were not fundamental courses taught at the British Auror Academy. Most spells Moody taught Harry were rather vicious and unsavory. Harry attributed this to Moody’s notoriety as a ruthless Auror.

Mad Eye would often leave Harry alone to train. What Moody did during these times he had yet to find out. It was evident Moody was brewing potions, if the putrid smell of coal and ember was anything to go by. Perhaps it was the concoction Moody took a swig at every half hour or so.

“If you really want to go through with this, lad, I’ll not deny you. But be mindful of what you’re asking for. The cruciatus is not a curse to be taken lightly.”

“Thanks for the warning,” he replied sarcastically.

Harry stretched his limbs as Moody prepared himself to fire the curse. The lingering pain from the fimbromsy curse was all but forgotten.

This was it. Harry would finally put to test his strange magic.

His heart quickened in anxious anticipation of the torture curse. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Harry felt a vague sense of fear, very vague. Harry a torn shred of cloth into a small gag silently, placing it into his mouth. With a nod to Moody, he was ready.

As Moody’s wand arm pulled back gathering magical energy, Harry began nervously using rudimentary breathing techniques, similar to that taught to women in labor. As Harry inhaled and exhaled loudly, Moody swung his arm wide, sending the sickly yellow curse directly at Harry’s chest.

Harry was swept off his feet viciously; his head impacted the ground with a thud, and unfortunately remained conscious.

Harry’s limbs were heard snapping and bending throughout the training room. His howls of pain surprised the caster with the terrible display of pain. Moody looked on in mixed fascination and horror as it dawned on him that he was torturing the Harry Potter him. It had been such a long time since the older man witnessed such raw human emotion.

Outside the room, up and out into real-time, the magical trunk sat discretely in Mad Eye’s dark office. The screams that fill the inside of the trunk went unheard during the brief few seconds it lasted.

The inhabitants of Hogwarts slept soundly that night whilst their chosen one endured a small portion of hell for them.

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Author's Commentary
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Story is still building up speed. I'm trying my best to move beyond the imprisonment and straight to post-Azkaban Harry. Next chapter I'll bring in more characters. Moody and Harry training would get stale and boring if I went into and explained everything Harry learned.

Also, a note to Draco haters, I hope you are up to reading a competent Draco Malfoy. He's a character, I feel, has massive potential as a major player in the world of Harry Potter. Too many authors squander this on petty things that distracts from what I think his character represents in canon; the complete opposite of Harry Potter. Draco is to Harry what Lex Luthor is to Superman, the Joker to Batman, Vegeta to Goku, Sasuke to Naruto, or Agent Smith to Neo. Take your pick. Anyways, until next time . . .


P.S. Image links in profile has been fixed.

P.S.S. To FICWAD readers: I must apologize for all of the mishaps I was having with this site. Most of you (authors) may have noticed that this site is very fickle when it comes to submitting stories and chapters. To all the people who left reviews, thanks allot. Your support will not be forgotten. If not for my beta 'whatareyouevensaying', fixing the problem, this fic would most likely be a FF(dot)net exlusive. Please bare with us if these prolems continue to persist in the future.
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