Forbidden Lore

Forbidden Lore

Chapter Five

When I woke up from my drug-induced sleep, I was, as I said, far from Hogwarts and quite alone. To be more specific, I had no idea where in the hell I was, what light there was came from a single candle on a stool near the wooden door, it was dead silent, and I couldn't see any sign of life other than my own. I was lying on a narrow pallet against the wall opposite the door and was more than a little hungry. Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet; promptly, my head began to ache mildly. When I hesitantly took a step forward, the pain increased ten-fold and I nearly fell.

"Great," I muttered, stumbling gracelessly back to my pallet, "This lovely, just wonderful. Someone get me the hell out of here!"

Miserably, I buried my face in my hands. Wishing to God that my nasty headache would go away so that I could think properly. Not to mention the fact that I couldn't walk three steps with my head throbbing the way it was. So, essentially, my own body if nothing else trapped me, though I had a sneaking suspicion that the door was bolted against escape. Whoever had brought me to that little bit of hell on earth had done too thorough a job to neglect something as simple as locking a door.

Again, I made the observation that I wasn't really afraid or angry, I was in pain and mildly annoyed with the idiot who had kidnapped me, but, more than anything, I was resigned to my situation. Already, I had accepted (as I'd done all my life) that everything happens for a reason, and that things would eventually hit the absolute rock bottom and then proceed to improve. In my opinion, this was still more proof that my life was cursed. Or, that it was the world's cruelest joke. Either worked for me.

I closed my eyes and massaged my temples, wondering what I'd done to deserve this. Unfortunately, I was able to bring several things to mind so I stopped and instead tried to think of ways to learn where I was. Even more unfortunately, this made my poor head throb with renewed strength. So, it was with a bitter sigh that I admitted defeat and lie back down on the thin mattress. Closing my eyes, I quickly fell into a fitful sleep.

I had another nightmare as I slept, and it was just as strange as any of the others.

I was outside, in a large, rolling, open field. It was the middle of the night, about midnight, judging by the position of the half moon in relation to the horizon. The longish grass was faintly silver in the light of it. I took a cautious step forward, expecting some awful thing to happen at any moment, just like in all of my other dreams.

Nothing happened, frowning slightly, curious about this new phenomenon, I took another, braver step. Still, nothing happened. Now, I was becoming perplexed, my dreams were never about nothing. Normal people had dreams about moonlit fields were nothing bad happened, unfortunately, I have never been a normal person. My eyes darted over the field, taking it in one quick swoop. I was now not only perplexed, but uneasy. The absolute stillness of that place was rattling my nerves.

Throwing caution to the wind, I boldly began walking forward, my strides long, staring ahead of me with fierce determination. Still, nothing happened. Then, all of a sudden, I heard it: a crowd, a crowd pf people, moving steadily in my direction. I froze, listening in a kind of horrid fascination to the monotonous human noises they made.

"They're coming," a soft voice coming from the space near my right ear said.

I looked over in surprise and found myself giving into the pale gray eyes of Draco Malfoy.

Where did he come from? I thought, puzzled, I didn't hear him.

"Draco," I said by way of greeting. I was mildly confused, but I, as always, covered it up, showing the world only cool composure.

"They're coming," he repeated, "Raven, are you ready?"

"Ready?"

"Yes, this is it, the battle to end all battles." He smiled, a small, lopsided sort of smile. Than he said, "So, I ask again, are you ready?"

"I suppose so, at least, I'm as ready as can be expected, given the circumstances."

"It's just you and I now," he whispered, "we're the only ones to break through the defenses. I wish Severus could be here too, he's always been so proud of you; treating you like the daughter he never had." He raised his voice slightly, "You do know that, right?"

"Is that so?" I asked softly, "did he tell you that, or is it something you figured out on your own?"

"Everyone knows it, Raven, everyone who ever saw you two together knows it. You are like his daughter; he became the only one who could break through your front."

Draco broke off then and looked towards the hill ahead of us. He paled slightly and narrowed his eyes, but, other than that, his expression didn't change. It was than that I noticed a pale, raised scar across his right cheek, I wondered distantly where it had come from.

People were coming over the crest of the hill then, I could see them. They were long black shadows, silent except for the whisper of their feet. I felt a stab of cold, piercing fear.

Then, I woke up.

Actually, I woke up and immediately sat bolt upright with a sharp gasp and a small scream of pure terror. I looked around the room, instantly aware of my surroundings and I felt like screaming again, this time with frustration.

"Whoever's doing this is sadistic and deserves to burn in the depths of hell!" I muttered under my breath, running a hand over my hair to smooth it. I hate to admit it, but I was rather fond of my hair and liked it to always be neat and smooth. It was forgivable, I think, because my hair was my only pleasing physical attribute. So, it was all right that I was proud of it.

It was at that moment that I noticed that there was a small table now sitting in the room, a tray with a plate of food and a colored glass of some type of liquid were on top of it. I stood up and was pleased to learn that the pain in my head had dulled to a faint throb at my temples. I found it easily ignorable.

Looking at the food on the table, I was discontented to see that it was only some bread, a bit of cheese, and an apple.

"At least it's food," I said; I didn't know why I kept saying things aloud, thinking back, it must have been just so that I could hear my own voice and know that I was still okay.

Employing a caution learned by a lifetime of fending for myself, I dipped the tip of the index finger of my left hand (not my right, if there was something wrong with the liquid in that cup, I didn't want to be injuring my wand hand) into the glass. It was cool and thin; I rubbed my finger against my thumb. Then, I lifted my fingers to my nose and sniffed the liquid. I felt like laughing with relief. It was water; clean, fairly cool water.

Still employing my meticulous care, I lifted the glass and allowed a bit of the water to touch my tongue. It tasted normal. Because my throat was dry and thirst was beginning to nag at me, I took a large mouthful and swallowed it. When I suffered no ill affects, I downed the rest of the glass.

Damn the consequences. I thought dryly, I'm thirsty.

After the glass was empty, I wished I hadn't drunk it. The water had been flat; it left a metallic sort of taste in the back of my mouth and throat. It was heavy, weighing down on my senses and settling uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach.

Vaguely, I wondered if it had been drugged; a drug I had failed to detect, no matter how thorough I'd been. Shaking my head slightly, I tried to place the funny metallic taste it had left behind.

Blood, I thought suddenly, it left a taste like blood.

It did, too. I remembered that taste well. Once, I'd been maybe eight-years-old at the time, I'd been temporarily placed with a distant cousin of my mother's; he'd been the only family I had. Anyway, I didn't know this at the time, I don't believe anyone did, but the man was mildly mentally unbalanced. Not badly, he was not insane; he was just a bit unbalanced, a bit unwell. Well, a few days after I arrived, I accidentally hit a vase that was sitting on a table, it fell off the table, and it cracked. It wasn't my fault the damn thing got that crack in it; there hadn't been a rug or anything on the wooden floor! So, my mother's cousin, his name was Johan, completely lost it and shoved me, hard. I hit my jaw on the hearth, knocking a loose tooth out and splitting my lip open.

There was blood all over the place, being as young as I was, I'd never seen so much blood. It terrified me, and I began sobbing hysterically. Curiously enough, my lip and mouth didn't hurt all that much, I was crying out of fear and shock, not pain. Needless to say, I was put in a different home the day after and Johan was admitted into St. Mungo's psychiatric ward. I heard when I was thirteen that he had been let out after a year and a half, and had committed suicide not long after. And that was the end of my family.

I never forgot the taste of the blood.

I shook myself out of my reverie and picked up the apple, turning it thoughtfully between my fingers, shifting it from hand to hand. Unconsciously, I checked the firm flesh for bruises or any other imperfections. When I found none, I bit into it and hoped to heaven that there was nothing in the apple. It tasted all right and I decided that I honestly didn't care if it was poisoned because I had absolutely nothing going for me at the moment anyway.

About twenty minutes later, I'd eaten the apple and the cheese, but not the bread because I thought it would last longer and I had no way of knowing when I'd get my next meal. I was seriously regretting drinking my glass of water as quickly as I had. Who knew when I'd be given any more?

I pulled out my watch; it was a silver, engraved pocket watch that had belonged to my father. It was the only thing I had of his and it meant the world me; as did the emerald ring that had belonged to my mother. To my surprise, the watch was still on it's chain and it's chain was still attached to the belt loop of the black slacks I was wearing beneath my robes, the silver ring was still on the middle finger of my right hand; where it always was.

Looking at my watch, I had to read it three times before I registered what it said. The watch was an old-fashioned wizard watch, a real one. Watches like mine were few and far between, I could think of quite a few people who would like to have it and who would pay considerable sums of money to get it, but I'd never give it up. The watch told me both the time and the date, and it was accurate to within .0002 seconds. It told me that it was 10:14 am on November 23^rd, 37 and one half hour since I'd been taken from Hogwarts.

"10:14 am, and my life has officially ended," I muttered under my breath with a dryness that would have made Severus Snape proud.

Somehow, this thought served to cheer me up a bit. It was easier to think of things like that than to face the reality of my unpleasant situation. It also served to keep my mind off the fact that most if not all of my friends had been angry with me when I disappeared.

Are they even bothering to look for me? I wondered.

Of course, I knew that the school at least was putting out some sort of effort to find my whereabouts. Even if no one cared what happened to me, they were going to try and find me because it was morally correct to do so. That thought gave me little in the way of comfort, however. Because I wasn't terribly certain that I wanted to go back to a place where I was unwanted.

These thoughts, and many others that followed similar lines, rolled around in my head for a fair bit of time. After a while, sick of sitting idly, I got up and began pacing the length of the small box that was my prison. Eventually, I got sick of that and sat back down on the pallet. I pulled my watch out every two minutes, desperate to see some change in the time. Of course, there was very little noticeable change, but I did it anyway.

"I think I'm losing my mind," I commented absently to the air.

Upon realizing that I was talking to myself, I said, "Yes, I am definitely losing my mind; captivity does that to you, methinks."

It was than that I noticed that I had said 'methinks' which is not common dialect anywhere, and that was just more confirmation that I was going crazy.

"Brilliant," I said, then, "I must quit talking to myself!"

To prevent myself from saying anything else aloud, I clamped my hand firmly over my mouth and mentally began singing the first song that came to mind. It was, incidentally, a song from a muggle musical that I'd seen when I was living in one of the nicer homes. My guardian there had had a peculiar fondness for muggle musical theatre and, as a result, I saw three shows during my summer with her. I had enjoyed them so much that I had purchased the compact discs with the songs and a portable compact disc player, which she gladly charmed to work around magic, so that I could always have the songs. The first song that came to mind was a song from "The Phantom of the Opera".

I decided that it was all right to sing to myself, so I began singing aloud, "'Wishing you were somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near. Sometimes it seems if I just dream, somehow you would be here. Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would. Dreaming of you won't help me to do, all that you dreamed I could.'"

I broke off, my eyes clouding with tears. It was too depressing, singing a song like that when I was completely alone. So, I began singing a different song, a song that was slightly less...lovesick sounding. It was a song from "Cats", yet another Andrew Lloyd Webber production.

"'Daylight, see the dew on a sunflower. And a rose that is fading, roses wither away. Like the sunflower, I yearn to turn my face to the dawn. I am waiting for the day... Memory, turn your face to the moonlight. Let your memory lead you, open up, enter in. If you find there the meaning of what happiness is, then the new life will begin.'"

Again, I stopped, not because I couldn't sing anymore, but because my throat was getting dry and I had no water to alleviate that awful parched feeling. So, I quit singing. It was the logical solution, and, under pressure, I had some logic I could employ. I remembered the quotation about logic that I'd told Ron at our first meeting. "Logic is neither and science nor an art, but a dodge." I loved things like that. Odd, quirky things like that. Especially when I got to say them at bizarre moments. I had an, admittedly strange, fixation with startling people; not necessarily nastily startling people. I just wanted to wow the world.

"Not much chance of that happening here," I whispered sorrowfully, tracing abstract patterns on the blanket with my index finger.

I then decided that if I had to be locked up in a featureless cube, I might as well look around for something to do with my time. Which, everyone I'm sure will agree, I had a great deal of. I also decided that I'd work on my posture (which left something to be desired, I assure you, I had a tendency to slouch slightly), my composure (I wanted to perfect blankness of expression, I was pretty good at it, but I'd lose it under heavy pressure), and my speech pattern (I had tendency to break up my speech with choppy words and hesitations). As I didn't have the faintest idea how much time I had nor did I have the faintest idea how quickly I'd be able to pick these things up, I came up with more than one thing to work on. I needed something to fill the hours.

I wandered the room for a bit and discovered that one wall had a camouflaged door in it that led to a small, rather stark bathroom. Again windowless, the tiny room had a toilet, a freestanding sink, and a shower. Inspecting the room more closely, I found a couple of bath towels and a bar of soap. I wondered what kind of person kidnapped someone only to provide essentially everything they needed. They only thing I could come up with was the possibility that I was being kept there so that someone could talk to me.

For three days I lived on the same schedule. I'd wake up and find a plate with bread, cheese, and either an apple or a pear on it, and a glass of water; I'd eat the cheese and the apple or pear, drink half the glass of water, and leave the rest for later. (It suits me to point out at this point that the tap water in the bathroom was always a bit warm and tasted rather like tin). Well, after I'd finished my meager breakfast (which, coincidently was also my lunch) I'd work on my posture, or work on molding my expression into one of perfect blankness, or on speaking clearly and evenly. The posture and expression went better than the speech; years of speaking with choppy, broken, often hesitant sentences had done a lot of damage; more than could be repaired in a few short days; probably more than could be repaired in several years. I spent my day doing things along those lines and I went to bed fairly early for lack of anything better to do.

Early in the morning of my fourth day, I woke to find someone in the room. It was a man, I could tell, a tall thin man. I watched him for a moment, my eyes narrowed to slits, and then I spoke.

"Hey!" I snapped, raising my voice just enough to startle him a great deal. I think it was partially because he wasn't accustomed to being called to in such an American fashion, but I was going for the startled affect. Besides, I knew a bit about America, I'd lived there for seven months. He turned quickly and stared at me, unfortunately, I couldn't make out his features in the dark.

"I have some questions for you," I sat up and gave him a death glare, though I'm sure it was wasted because there was no way he could have seen it in the dark. "First: who the hell are you? Second: where the hell am I? Third: when the hell do I leave? And fourth: If you can't answer my questions, who the hell can?"

"I haven't got the power to answer your questions," he said, quite predictable if you ask me. His voice was tenor, rather musical, but cold; it was the voice of a very nasty person, I could tell.

"I repeat: if you can't answer my questions, who can?"

"It's not time yet, Raven,"

"Who came you permission to call me by name," I asked, "sir?" I added sarcastically.

"No one needs to give me permission regarding you!" he snarled.

"Charming," I muttered dryly, "you're just so terribly charming. I'm not a goddamn piece of baggage, you know."

"Right little ball of happiness, aren't you?"

"Just call me Mary Sunshine," I said flippantly. The man obviously missed the reference.

"What?" he asked sharply.

"Nothing," I said, "moron," I added under my breath. "So, could you at least tell me your first name? Nothing too incriminating about that, is there?"

"No,"

"You're so very helpful," I stated, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Don't act like that. You'll meet someone who can answer all your questions soon enough."

With that, he turned on his heel and locked me in alone again. Getting up, I went over to the stool near the door and fumbled around until I found the match he'd left. Striking the match, I lit the candle and glared daggers at the closed door. I knew for a fact that it was bolted because I'd heard the bolt slide into place.

With yet another heavy, rather defeated sounding sigh, I walked back over to my pallet and flopped down on it, cracking the back of my skull against the plaster wall behind me in the process. Rubbing my head, I stared at the ceiling miserably and sighed again. I really wished I knew how to perform the Cruciatrus Curse so that I could use it on that moron the next time I saw him.

It was shaping out to be a long day.