Practice

Practice

"Did you have her admitted?"

"Yes."

"Which ward?"

"Longbottoms'."

"Dear God. Was she really that bad off?"

"Yes."

"That's the third one this month, you know."

"Yes."

"And the MLE Squad brought her in?"

"They did."

"Any leads? Suspects? They've got to have some idea of who's behind this."

"We all know who's behind it."

"Have you reported it to the Ministry?"

"Of course."

"What did they say?"

"No comment."

"Son of a...WHEN are they going to accept that He's back?"

"Not until Fudge sees Him with his own eyes."

"The Potter boy's been screaming it for months, Dumbledore's behind him, and still the Aurors haven't been deployed..."

"He can't ignore it forever. This won't be the last, you know."

"I was afraid you were going to say that. Have you examined her? Is she the same as all the others?"

"Yes. Controlled, tortured...raped, as well."

"She can't be more than 18!"

"18, yes."

"Unbelievable...Will the counter-hexes help? Is there a possibility of returning her to her world?"

"No. Not even Muggles would be convinced she was schizophrenic."

"But in time, we can help her, can't we? Fix some of the damage she's sustained?"

"We're Healers, Venutia, not miracle workers."

"I'm at least going to go have a look. See if there's anything..." She broke off her speech, shook her head and left his office, closing the door quietly behind her.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was the Christmas holidays, and he'd been sent to find himself some practice. She was just a Muggle, he thought, but at least she was beautiful. Long raven hair danced in ringlets about her heart-shaped, pale face, and her deep brown eyes shone with a merriment the likes of which he was not accustomed. She was wrapped in a warm, fur-lined coat, a black and maroon scarf evident just below the neckline. Her gloves matched her scarf, also edged in fur, and she appeared to be the only woman for miles around wearing anything other than jeans; instead she wore heavy corduroy pants tucked deep into her thick Inuit boots.

He decided she was to be his early Christmas present and made his way to her through the crowds. She was window shopping, not paying any attention, and with a flick of his wand all her purchases fell to the snow-dusted walk.

Jarred from a fantasy about how the diamond-encrusted necklace in the window would feel on her neck, she looked around, embarrassed, and began to pick up her things. He crept closer. He had no desire to help her with the mess and waited until she'd managed to scoop everything up to offer her a hand in standing. He knew, looking as he did, she would not refuse him.

He started a conversation, every bit as charming and debonair as he'd been taught, and then invited her for tea at a nearby hotel restaurant. "It's lovely...elegant...and it'll warm you through, I promise."

"I'm not dressed - " she protested.

"You're exquisite," he interrupted. "Please. I can't bear to part from you so soon."

She colored deeply, accepted his arm after shifting her purchases to her other hand, never noticing he offered no assistance, and accompanied him to the nearby Hyatt. Therein was a delightful bistro specializing in proper English tea, and as they sat and chatted and sipped some Earl Grey and warmed themselves, she found herself growing wary of the attractive young man before her. His mannerisms seemed feigned, his charm had a cold, hard edge to it, and his ego had become apparent. When it seemed enough time had passed to find reason to excuse herself, she reached for her things.

"You can't leave yet," he stated, a distinctly wicked gleam in his eye, and just as she was about dash for the door because her misgivings had so intensified, she felt her mind go numb. It was as though she had had one drink too many; her brain was fuzzy and she could not think straight. "Come with me," he ordered, and it did not occur to her not to agree.

They made their way to one of the elevators in the lobby, sailed up to the fourteenth floor, and he followed behind her as she floated toward room 1467; it had been reserved for the week under the Muggle name Sam Jones, and though it required a key card, Alohamora worked just as easily on Muggle locks as on Magical.

She did not notice the others in the room at first; instead, she'd been intent upon following the direction of her companion to leave her things by the door. When she turned, the stupor that had consumed her mind vanished and was replaced instead by terror. Standing before her were four tall adult men in black cloaks and masks.

The door was against her back and she turned madly and fumbled with the handle, which would not move. Swinging around again, the door once more at her back, she began to plead with the assembled group that they would not kill her, and was horrified by the cacophony of quiet laughter that met her ears, doubly so as they moved as one in her direction.

The youth at her side smiled grandly at her, and in a fit of rage and panic, she grabbed him and thrust him toward the group of men, leaping for the door to her right. The snickers resounding off the walls around her brought home the fact that she had stepped into a closet, and she was overcome by a feeling of defeat.

Four sets of hands were on her, lifting her through the air, dropping her onto the bed. She cowered against the back wall, images of cultists and devil worshippers filling her mind. One of the men stepped forward and pointed a decorated stick at her. She was gripped by a pain she had never known; it felt as though her skull might split in two, and she cried out, begging for relief. The pain subsided and she lay gasping on the bed, tears flowing freely from her eyes.

"Undress," came a husky voice from behind the mask of the man who had caused her pain. She only gaped at him. "I said, undress," he drawled again, "or would you prefer I see to it for you?"

"Go to hell!" she shouted in a fleeting moment of bravery.

Instantly her mind exploded with the same agonizing pain she'd felt moments before. Her limbs were on fire...they HAD to be...and the breath had left her. She writhed and wriggled and as soon as she had accepted the inevitability of her death, the pain was gone. Rather than subsiding, this time it had vanished.

"Undress," repeated the voice, "or you will know my wrath."

She did as she was told, doing her best to keep herself covered from their view. As they were circling the bed now, this was nearly impossible.

When she was wearing only her underclothing, the young man with whom she'd had tea stepped forward and whispered to the man who seemed to be the leader. The leader of the group nodded, his mask staying firmly in place as though held by invisible strings, and the young man started to remove his clothing. When he was about to unbutton his trousers, the man to whom he'd spoken stopped him. "Have her do it," he ordered.

The youth climbed onto the bed and knelt before her, waiting for her to open his pants. She clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and prepared herself for excruciating pain, knowing she'd never willingly undress him. "Imperio!" she heard, and found herself eagerly doing what seconds before had revolted her.

She happily helped him undress and noted that the body before her was lithe, tight, and sexy. She did not argue as her bra was removed, nor protest at the removal of her panties, but sat contentedly on the bed awaiting instruction.

In an instant, her mind returned to her and she shook her head violently to clear the residual fog. "It's more fun when you're frightened," explained the boy before her, and she suddenly felt as though she were in a vice, tense and short of breath.

The battle began, but for her, it was more internal than external. Here she was, scared to death, surrounded by cloaked, masked men who were now watching her be straddled by one her own age under the direction of another, and frightened as she was, she found herself desperately aroused by the youth now atop her.

He was sculpted, pale, full of angles and anger and hatred and need. The tattoo on his forearm seemed both to fit perfectly with and to be perfectly opposite his demeanor, and she felt herself grow wet as she clawed at the beautiful body above her, still pleading to be left alone.

She drew blood on his chest with her cat scratches, and he slapped her hard across the face...so hard, her world went briefly black. And then each of the four men who had been waiting for her in the room stepped forward and pinned down one of her limbs, holding her in place with determination...and with a tenderness by which she found herself repulsed. One had begun to stroke the calf he held, and another was gently patting her left shoulder.

The boy lowered himself onto her again and took one of her nipples into his mouth, teasing her, nibbling at her, and finally biting down hard enough she believed he had drawn blood, but when he moved to her other nipple to repeat his cruelty, her breast was still intact. She tried with all her might to ignore his ministrations, to fight against the hands that held her, spread-eagled, on the bed, and exerted every effort to keep from crying out as he ravaged her, to no avail. She felt anger, shame, terror...and a pleasure unlike any she'd ever known.

Suddenly he brought himself eye to eye with her, stopping her cries with his mouth. His sleek white-blonde hair hung in her face, and though she attempted to turn from him, part of her wanted to drink him in. Eventually she broke his kiss, closed her eyes, and, weeping, turned her head, but this was what he had hoped; he began to lick and suck her neck and ear, breathing huskily and further arousing her wonderfully abused body. He then turned her face back to his and licked the trail of her tears, relishing the saltiness of her fear.

As he steeled himself to use her here before his father and his father's friends, he slid his hands down the length of her body, caressing her soft white skin. She was crying in earnest now. All at once thrust into her, making her scream in both pain and pleasure. He rode her hard - angrily - calling her every name he could think of, and then grabbed hold of his father's wand.

"Crucio!" he yelled, and she exploded once more in an all-encompassing agony...but as the pain consumed her, she also experienced a pleasure almost more intense than her suffering. It was gone and the anguish remained until finally she passed out.

When she regained consciousness, she was surrounded by all four men, each taking turns using her for themselves, and all the while the young man that had first enjoyed her reclined naked on the room's overstuffed sofa amusing himself by changing channels on the television with the remote control.

Having each finished with her, the leader of the group ordered that she dress, and as she did so, sobbing, she caught site of his long, white-blonde locks. Her tears dried up immediately when her mind connected this man's hair color to the youth on the couch; she felt impossibly empty realizing they had been father and son. She had ceased to dress herself, and the punishment was swift and sure; two of the men began to beat her, and though she endured it, she felt her mind slipping. Rather than floating as it had so many times since she'd met the youth, it was leaving her, and she was having trouble connecting her thoughts.

The youth was summoned from his entertainment, and irritated by further requirements placed on him, he stormed across the room, pulled his wand from the pocket on his discarded trousers, and was ready to finish the job quickly so he could get back to the television. His father instructed him; he directed his wand at the girl and yelled "Aquulatorquere!" He then returned to his programming, leaving the woman at his feet to believe she was experiencing what was commonly known to Muggles as "Water Torture," and as her sanity had already begun to slip, it wasn't long until, combined with a host of "Crucios!" from the laughing Death Eaters congregated there, she had descended into madness.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Venutia returned to find Centonis still at his desk.

"She says she can't feel the water any longer."

"Good."

"Is there anything else I should do for her?"

"Have you spoken with the Healer on duty about treating her wounds?"

"I actually took care of it myself. I was thinking maybe it would calm her."

"Did it?"

"That's when she told me that the dripping had stopped."

"Good work."

"Um...one more thing..."

"What is it?"

"The scar on her forehead..."

"Yes?"

"Have you told the Ministry about that, too?"

"The MLE has it in their report."

"It's just like all the others, Toni. The water had her so nuts that she tore open her forehead, and, I know it's ridiculous, but it's a zig-zag...almost a lightening bolt...and...and I think it's intentional."

"You think she intended it?"

"She's a Muggle. It has no significance to her. But like I said earlier, that's the third this week who has ripped herself...or himself...a gash on the forehead like the Potter boy's."

"The implication being?"

"That perhaps He intended it. Maybe He's making some sort of statement."

"The MLE has it in their report, Venutia."

"But, sir - "

"There's nothing more we can do."

"Yes, sir," she murmured, and grabbing her handbag, left St. Mungo's for the night.

Centonis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face. He then leaned back over his desk, put quill to parchment, and began his twenty-eighth letter to Cornelius Fudge.

"Dear Minister," he began, "No doubt you are aware that yet another Muggle has been found, tortured and scarred, mad and wandering the streets. This one was raped. She is barely eighteen. How long will you continue to claim that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has not..."

The End.