feel the dampness and chill of the
stone floor under him, and nearby he heard the damp, insistent drip of
water splashing against stone. He felt his muscles tighten as the
dripping sound forced itself against his senses. Then he opened his
eyes.

His first impulse was to scream out wildly in unreasoning, suffocating
fear. He fought it down, struggling to sit up in the blackness, his
whole mind turned in bitter, hopeless hatred at the ones who had hunted
him for so long, and now had trapped him.

Why?

Why did they torture him? Why not kill him outright, have done with it?
He shuddered, and struggled to his feet, staring about him in horror.

It was not a well, but a small room, circular, with little rivulets of
stale water running down the granite walls. The ceiling closed low over
his head, and the only source of light came from the single doorway
opening into a long, low stone passageway.

Wave after wave of panic rose in Harry's throat. Each time he fought
down the urge to scream, to lie down on the ground and cover his face
with his hands and scream in helpless fear. How could they have known
the horror that lay in his own mind, the horror of darkness, of damp
slimy walls and scurrying rodents, of the clinging, stale humidity of
dungeon passageways? He himself had seldom recalled it, except in his
most hideous dreams, yet he had known such fear as a boy, so many years
ago, and now it was all around him. They had known somehow and _used it
against him_.

Why?

He sank down on the floor, his head in his hands, trying to think
straight, to find some clue in the turmoil bubbling through his mind
that would tell him what had happened.

He had started down the hallway from his room, to find Dr. Webber and
tell him about the other people--

He stopped short, looked up wide-eyed. _Had_ he been going to Dr.
Webber? Had he actually decided to go? Perhaps--yes, perhaps he had,
though Webber would only laugh at such a ridiculous story. But the
not-men who had hunted him would not laugh; to them, it would not be
funny. They knew that it was true. And they knew he knew it was true.

_But why not kill him?_ Why this torture? Why this horrible persecution
that dug into the depths of his own nightmares to haunt him?

His breath came fast and a chilly sweat broke out on his forehead.
_Where_ was he? Was this some long forgotten vault in the depths of the
Old City? Or was this another place, another world, perhaps, that