Disclaimer: I don't own either Naruto or Harry Potter, or the mentioned characters. But, I do own the story.

Summary: Love lurks in the most unusual places... Huh.. Who would have thought one of those places is an interrogation room? This is SLASH and descriptions of gore. If you can stomach it, then read it.

Shout out: Wah, that is something unusual, but well, I did promise something wit Harry and Ibiki one of my readers, so there it is. It is not complete, because I am just evil that way, but there will be a sequel... it just a hunch. /grins/.

Warnings: First, it's a SLASH – meaning Harry/Ibiki (ish spooked out-Frankenstein bunnies, I tell ya) – and there are descriptions of gore. So, if you can't stomach it – either of it, you are welcome to hightail out of here. Otherwise, enjoy!

And fearless are the idiots
Among the hawks and doves
We're on the outside looking in
A couple of freaks in love

(Elton John – Freaks in Love)

"Now... Will you tell me who sent you or do I have to use more... drastic measures?" A gruff voice asked the form that was stretched across the cross.

The dungeon was... cold and dark and scented with pungent odours of iron, blood and, burnt flesh and something that could only be despair and pain.

The slouched form on the cross twitched.

"Fuck. You." The prisoner snarled out weakly, his voice thin and ragged with absence of water and his vocal chords were likely damaged form the... after effects of hospitable stay in this dreary hole named interrogation chamber.

His captor sighed. This one was particularly unwilling one, which was all the more of a reason for him to break the prisoner as soon as possible.

However, he was intrigued by the man's resilience and past – for someone who was a civilian, the prisoner had amazingly high threshold for pain, and what was more, the interrogator suspected he had been a soldier, if the wounds on his... guest's... body were of any indication.

They had caught the man – teen, really – trying to sneak into the village, and because they were paranoid bunch of bastards – the recent kidnapping of Hyuuga Hinata wasn't helping the matters - the thief – or whoever the teen was, had been bundled off to the Interrogation Unit.

This was the third month since he had been brought here, and he was still going good, the torture notwithstanding.

He was some kind of a joke – and legend among the interrogators. No matter what they had done to him, no matter how painful, how crippling, no matter the mind-fuckery they engaged the so-called tough cookie in, he still did not bend. It frustrated and awed them at the same time. They had tried with Yamanaka, but the man was repelled from the teen's mind and had to spend a fortnight in hospital due to the injuries.

So the mental attacks were out. There remained only physical, and emotional. Physical, Anko had all the fun in the world with the man – snakes, salt in the wounds, pulling nails and the like, she even created a pair of new techniques, just from 'working' on the man.

And yet, he stayed silent.

The tall man looked at the ragged form. Such amount of deprivation from senses and exposure to some of the worst torture known to man had broken his body.

He was heavily scarred, and bleeding even now. There had been pain, and only pain, and he could sympathize with Cookie, as they called him. What had they done to him, even he would have broken under such torment, and yet, this youth stayed silent.

Oh, he screamed. He howled. He cried – but not even once, he begged for mercy.

"Why won't you speak?" He asked the prisoner. "You know – you could've spared yourself the torture and pain. You just have to tell me – "

A dry chuckle interrupted him. "No can do, bastard. I know your sort– if I agreed to sing my little heart out, there would be no guarantee that you would stop using the... incentive." The prisoner hacked, a dark, almost black blood colouring the deathly pale lips.

The interrogator's eyebrow twitched. Well, the stubborn fucker was right, at any rate.

The chains rattled.

Green eye looked into his dark orbs. A single orb – the other one, Anko tore out gleefully just three days ago. He fought a wince at the memory of that particular... occasion. He was hardened warrior, and he was an interrogator for a very long time – but this – this just seemed wrong.

The gaunt face looked at him, marred with scars, one eyelid over the empty eye socket that was still bleeding heavily, despite the crude bandage, which now hung around the teen's neck like some mockery of a victory wreath – dirty, blooded and pungent.

Surprisingly, the teen still had his hair, but now, instead of being black, it was gray with white streaks mixed in. Cookie's face was like some kind of a grotesque mask, like papier-mâché one, hiding something behind it, and mesmerizing and disgusting the watcher with its unique brand of beauty. Ugly, even horrific beauty, but beauty just the same.

It was like watching butterfly without wings, or even wild cat in a small cage. Beautiful spirits, but with broken bodies.

"I don't like torturing you." He spoke out, his voice grave.

His prisoner snorted. "And I don't like to be tortured, but we can't have what we want all the time, can we?" he asked sardonically, making interrogator's lips twitch with grim amusement.

"Then why do you insist on not telling anything?" He asked wearily. He had asked this particular question so many times now, he was sick of those words. They did not change anything.

The silence settled between them, interspersed with the uneven and irregular breathing of the prisoner.

"I don't like being broken."

The whisper was so silent the interrogator had to strain - even with his superior hearing – to hear it.

'I don't like being broken.'

When he silently closed the doors of the Room number 13, those words echoed in his head.

'I don't like being broken.'

The same words he had told his captors so long ago.

What an irony.

To his surprise, they ceased to torture him. It should've been a relief, from the constant pain and whatnot, but he was wary, and expected for the other shoe to drop sometime. Because Fate was a bitch like that, and someone, named Harry James Potter hadn't been given lucky breaks only on a whim – there was always, always a catch somewhere in the writing.

The crazy snake bitch whined and pouted, of course, but he had glimpsed a look of relief somewhere deep in her eyes - so deep he doubted anyone else had seen it. They had a strange relationship. They taunted each other, sharp verbal jabs and whatnot, only that Anko had the possibility of exacting revenge on him without repercussions. She was like Bellatrix – only younger, saner and more bloodthirsty version. Not very reassuring combination, but what the hell – it was fun while it lasted. Not.

His wounds had been tended to, but he didn't know who had done the deed – it was one of those times he was unconscious, and the next time he was awake, he found himself in a clean, albeit cold and bare cell with thin cot and even thinner blanket. A luxury, comparing to those three months of agony, and with cold days coming – Harry suspected the winter would soon be there – it was better than nothing. He had been clothed into a soft, old threadbare sweatshirt that was a couple of times too big for him, but it beat being naked all the time.

He did not have any contacts with outside world, which was fine with him. Most of his days were spent in meditation and enforcing his mind shields. He could not do more, because his body was still healing, and this damn collar was still on. Sure, he had made some headway in chipping it, but it was tiring process, especially when nobody had seen the bloody thing. Magic was a wonderful thing, but in that instance, it was just a pain in the arse. Luckily, Occlumency did not depend on magic, otherwise he would be a goner.

Therefore, his days passed in cold and silence.

He couldn't help but watch him. When he was not so wary, Cookie was curiously calm and desensitized to the isolation. Any other person would've gone mad, what with the silence and lack of human contact, but not Cookie.

He came to watch him, early in the morning or late in the night, but always when Cookie was asleep.

The teen was clothed in a threadbare gray sweatshirt that reached to his knees, curled into a small ball. He had to suppress a wince at Cookie's position – it should've been very painful, what with some of his bones still healing – he knew that from his own experiences, but the youth didn't have a care about that minor discomfort.

Dull gray and white hair was long now, reaching just under his shoulders. Someone had braided it, as to tame the wild feathery soft locks, but with minimal success, as some of the strands still escaped the braid. Wild and untamed even in captivity, just like their owner.

He was so innocent looking. If he hadn't knew better, he would have thought him to be ordinary teen, without care of the world, and not the stubborn hard arse that caused simultaneous feelings of like, dislike, awe and grudging respect across his division. Of course, Cookie didn't know that. But the interrogators respected him, and God forbid, some even liked him. Genuinely liked. They may be bloodthirsty maniacs in most of the cases, but they were still bleeding humans under the skin, and Cookie somehow managed to touch that part of them.

When Cookie had been brought here for the first time, they thought it would be easy as a pie, to break the slender boy. However, minutes passed, then hours, then days and nights, and they were no closer to the answer as they were on the day Cookie had been brought in their oh-so-gentle-care.

But him... For him, the boy held a special meaning. That defiant, wild spirit was something he loathed to break, and with each session, he had feared the youth would finally succumb to the torture. And he was – ironically enough – relieved, when the boy persisted, even when the torture techniques they had used on him were brought to inhuman heights.

Gently, he touched the locks of gray and white – never silver, just two distinct shades of colour mixing in. They were scraggly and warm, like a living thing, and involuntarily, he smiled at the sensation.

He didn't smile often.

So just how was this little prisoner managing to bring a smile on his face with such ease?

He twitched. He was aware. He was, for some time now. On the outside, he still pretended to be hurt more than he should have been, but when playing games with those people, he learned that he could never be too careful.

The days passed by. Slowly, he recovered – his health won't be perfect, after that horror of a interrogation trip, especially within those circumstances, but he would get by. And just a little time – just a little time, and he would be free of that blasted contraption of a collar. He could almost taste it.

And then, freedom, here we come.

But those dark eyes –


Dark, unfathomable, and even scarier than Snape's, which was a feat all of its own. Those eyes that drilled into his lone orb – so dark, as if they were seeing into the depths of his soul. He had been tempted, many times, to just say fuck it and tell the man all the secrets, if it weren't for his stubborn nature.

The man was taller than him. Stronger than him, without doubt. When he had first saw him, Harry was half mad with pain and Anko was whining about something – using something or other – when he had stepped into the room, as if he owned it.

And there it was.

Harry didn't begrudge the man for torturing him, like he had begrudged Voldemort – the interrogator was just doing his job, no more, no less. Oh, he had antipathy for the other interrogators, especially for that Anko bitch, but not for him. Never for him.

It was strange that he could not loath the man who had taken from him so much.

He would miss him when he would be gone.


"What do you mean, he's gone?" Ibiki's sharp voice cut through the tense silence.

"J – Just that, Ibiki-sama. H – He's gone. The cell is empty." The shinobi stuttered out, barely managing to avoid soiling his pants. Ibiki's killing intent rose.

"He was in the most secure block... and in the cell that sucks chakra out of the prisoner... and you are telling me he somehow managed to give us a mickey and hightailed out?" Anko snarled out, her eyes wild.

The rest of interrogators were similarly affected.

And spooked.

They knew the state the Cookie was in – it was virtually impossible to make an escape with the wounds he had. Somehow, the little blighter had managed to do the impossible.

And that meant the security of the complex – and consequently village – was flawed.

"What will we do, Ibiki-sama?" One of the Interrogators, Kagutsuchi, asked. He was smaller than Ibiki, with black hair in a low ponytail and red shades, clothed in standard interrogation uniform, He had fondness for knives and anything pointy.

"Should we report – "

" – No." Ibiki interrupted him. "This is our concern. And if Danzo finds out we have AWOL prisoner, the situation will be FUBAR before we'd know it." The listeners grimaced or winced. If the Danzo found out about Cookie... it wouldn't be good. And if the old war hawk got a hold of him... just thinking about that, it gave Ibiki the willies. To have a person who could break in anywhere, at any time on his disposal... Danzo would be creaming his pants with delight at the possibilities.

"We'll catch him. And, everyone..." Ibiki paused.

"Not a word about Cookie to anyone. Understood?"

The chorus of 'aye's' later, they scattered.

And prisoners were wondering why their interrogators were more vicious as usual that day.


AWOL - Absence Without Official Leave - in that care, Harry escaped.

FUBAR - Fucked Up Beyond All Reason - the situation or mission is... well, fucked up.

/To Be Continued/