And Nobody Will Ever Know

And nobody will ever know

Imagine a man surrounded by dozens of enemies who hate him and everything he stands for; enemies who love killing and inflicting pain. Imagine a man locked in a chamber deep below the ground, with a dozen heavy iron gates between him and the honest air, and at each gate a monstrous guard. Imagine a man in the company of foes the least of whom is stronger than he is. Imagine a man without a hope in this world.

Pride is not enough. Pride will not keep the screams of pain from you, even if you bite your lips till blood flows. It will not keep you standing once your enemy's torturers have demonstrated their ability, of which they boast, to break every bone in a man's body without killing him; or preserve you from the even more humiliating experience of feeling your enemy's magic enter your body and repair all the damage, so that his minions can wreck you once more. There always comes a time when the body overwhelms the soul and cries for mercy, for a minute's release, for an end - an end of any kind.

Many of the Death Eaters were bored. They understood that they were there so that their numbers should strengthen the humiliation that went with this torture; so that an enemy naturally proud, naturally arrogant, should feel the crushing loneliness of his hour, not just in suffering the pains of the damned, but in feeling every last moment of his sufferings exposed, even recorded, in magically enhanced memories. Only the younger Death Eaters - including Draco Malfoy, who had barely been inducted - had any great interest in the torture itself, and none showed any in the red-haired prisoner himself. It had happened so many times before; even vindictive glee was no longer keen enough to raise any heat in their souls.

Percy Weasley had gambled and lost. Caught in the act of owling a message to Harry Potter, he had seen his owl - guilty only of dumb animal loyalty - slowly shredded with every refinement of cruelty, and had then been dragged into the lowest of dungeons, as the Dark Lord summoned every available Death Eater to enjoy the show. And the show had lasted for hours.

Now Voldemort was preparing for the final moment. He ordered the torturers back, letting their prey fall back on bare flagstones, already spattered with millions of tiny droplets of blood. Looking sternly down, he articulated a few words, softly, but so clearly that everyone in the room heard them. "You have a choice, Weasley. Join me - sincerely, this time - or die."

Percy silently shook his head.

"I am giving you this choice" went on Voldemort as if he had not seen him "not because of a mercy you would not believe in, but because I can still use you. And you can still have advantage in serving me. For one thing, after my victory, you will be allowed to protect the lives of any member of your rebellious family who has not actually fallen in battle. And even of their friends."

"No - thank - you" muttered Percy, barely audible. "You'll - find - they - protect - themselves..." and then, after a coughing attempt to get his breath: "Weasleys... can do without... your... protection, my lord." And he even managed an attempt at an insolent grin.

Voldemort's eyes flashed, but he kept his composure. "You are arrogant and stupid, Percy Weasley. You can still recover something from the wreckage of your lives and the misguided hopes of your party. I am offering you an opportunity to take part in ruling the future. If you refuse it, nothing will change. And you will die without a reason."

"Nobody will even remark what you have done. You will have done your party no good at all; you will have died alone in a corner. And do you think that you matter at all? Look at my followers" - and Voldemort gestured to show the roomful of Death Eaters in various attitudes of disdain and boredom, some not even paying attention and chatting casually with each other - "do you think this is anything special to them? They have seen it happen twenty, thirty, forty times. Every time someone is discovered and refuses to change allegiances. Do you think this will make you a hero? It will make you a nobody. You will fade from memory as though you had never existed. You will die like a dog; and nobody will ever know, because someone else will be wearing your face and voice." And Voldemort showed what Percy knew to be Polyjuice Potion. Voldemort repeated: "You will die like a dog, and your friends will still believe that you betrayed them and joined my side. There will be nobody left who can say a good word for you; your family will die cursing your name.

"This is your last chance," concluded Voldemort, with emphasis on every word.

Perceval Weasley raised his head till his eyes were staring straight into Voldemort's eyes. He focussed all the strength he had left into speaking clearly, and then he spoke.

"There is nothing to argue between us. There is nothing you can offer or threaten me with. Whatever I did, you would turn it to evil, so I will do nothing for you. There is nothing I can do against you now; but you will never have my consent - now, tomorrow, or ever."

The two pairs of eyes kept staring; until suddenly, with a gesture of bored dismissal, Lord Voldemort turned away. "One of you," he snapped, "cut his throat. We shall use the blood for a Polyjuice Potion."

Bellatrix Lestrange stepped forwards. Her left arm forced Percy's head brutally down, as her right hand seized a large kitchen knife. Her despicable husband, seeing what she was about to do, threw himself after her with a leather bucket to catch the blood. But cutting the throat of a full-grown man as he struggles under you is hard work, even with a steel knife - even if you have the strength of a madwoman and love your work. And as Bellatrix drove the metal, strain after strain, push after push, into tough unyelding flesh, grunting as her prey struggled and screamed - and her husband foolishly repeated, keep the stupid bastard down, keep him down, we'll lose the blood, keep him down - the knife nearly slipped her hand, because she was driving it too hard. Had she admitted it, she would know that she was trying to escape a sense of disappointment, of anger - that that detestable piece of red-haired flesh had had the impudence to answer to her lord, and that her lord had had nothing to say to silence him, and that he had broken eye contact first. Bellatrix drove the knife back in with renewed fury, and it caught on the carotid artery and burst it, and the blood broke out as if from a hose, staining her, her husband and everyone in the neighbourhood.

Percy felt his strength and life fading as the blood poured out of him ("for the blood is the life"). The last thing his living eyes saw was not the face of any of his enemies - but a patch of stone from the wall carved from the earth to shelter the monsters. And it came to him that there was something in that wall, in the very stones, that suffered and rebelled against Voldemort and his court of fiends; that the very flagstones on which they stood were drenched in hate for their evil. He knew now, not as a guess, but as truth, that it was not he, but them, who did not have a hope in the world, who had cut themselves off from life and truth by a worse, more writhing wound than even offended flesh can suffer - who lashed out from a pain that devoured them - whose only hope was to spread the pain till the whole world screamed.

Percy was no longer, not exactly, that poor broken bulk of flesh in the mad hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. He could look down on it, as he once had been able to look down on his own feet - but it was the least part of him, the part of his childhood, the part on which he stood. He felt his mind, or rather his whole self, opening to the firmness of truth, to something more light than light itself, for the first time in his life; and everything he had ever seen and experienced was coming back to him, but no longer as a kaleidoscope of separate ideas - they were now greater than themselves; some, many, many more, of the infinite facets of truth.

Truth was opening itself to Percival Weasley, unfolding before him and welcoming him in. He was conscious that if he had ever perceived the dimensions behind dimensions, the patterns within patterns, that were appearing before him - if he had perceived them once, as he had been, until that madwoman slit his throat - they would have overwhelmed all his senses like waves of thunder. Yet there was no fear or pain in all the immense power; only welcome, justice, fitness - he was coming home. Before him he saw all those he had loved and lost, past, present and future - reflected in the view of the One Who was growing more visible, more certain, more open with each moment of realization; opening Himself to him, as trumpets thundered and hosts sang, to be glorified and known and enjoyed for ever. And he knew, for the first time, what he was, everything he was; and he knew that all he had came from the One - a gratitude so immense, a gratitude that came from the root of his being. And the One looked on him and there was glory in His looking, glory freely given and beyond all merit.

WELL DONE, YOU GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT. YOU HAVE BEEN FAITHFUL IN SMALL THINGS, YOU SHALL BE REWARDED IN GREAT THINGS. ENTER INTO THE JOY OF YOUR LORD.

....................................................................................................................

Percy's shattered body was thrown into a corner, as the Dark Lord took the bucket full of his blood from Rudolphus Lestrange and made the final preparations for the Polyjuice Potion. As he worked, he raised his head briefly, looked around - and made a quick scourgify spell, to clean his followers and himself of bloodstains.

Once again, Bellatrix silenced the sense of doubt that had been whispering at her. She did admit to herself that she was a bit disappointed. The blood of an enemy ought to be worn proudly, like a badge of honour. And beneath that thought, there was another, which she did not allow herself to hear: you would not think that the Dark Lord would want to wash the marks of his work from himself. Bellatrix did not realize it, but her mood had fallen a great way from the days in which she rejoiced in cruelty without concern. What she thought she had killed in herself was awake and feeding on everything she saw and heard, gnawing at her confidence and daring.

Rudolphus drank the Polyjuice without any visible faltering, and in a few seconds they saw Percy Weasley standing before them. All the Death Eaters, from grizzled Antonin Dolohov to baby-faced Draco Malfoy, grinned at each other, and quickly left the room, locking the steel gate behind them; their spirits high and hopeful as total destruction, only a few hours distant, lay in wait for them.

END OF THE STORY