The Final Truth

Her body was broken, terribly bruised, and bleeding; her eyes were wide and terrified as hopeless tears ran down her discolored face. She wore nothing over her tortured body, making all of the bruises and broken bones easily visible from anywhere in the damp, chilly stone room. Her wrists, bound tightly over her head with a rough, home-made rope which then ran through a double ring in the low ceiling, were bleeding profusely, showing the painful hours of struggling that she'd hoped would free her. Her ankles were bound with another length of the same rope, which had been run through an identical ring in the pitted, scorched, blood-covered floor. Her head hung low, as though she were a subdued slave, and her long hair shielded her face from the sight of the men that paced hungrily about the edges of the chamber.

She watched, her head still hanging, as two of the men stepped closer to her. Terror, anger, disgust, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness rose in her as the first man grabbed her slender waist and held her tightly, drawing fresh bruises to the surface. The second drew a shiny, sharp, deadly-looking silver dagger from a belt sheathe. He grasped her by the chin and forced her head up, looking deep into her defiant but tired eyes. He grinned maliciously, and let her head fall. Then he thrust the silver dagger into her stomach, and painstakingly began to carve his initials.

She screamed, again and again, into the gag that filled her mouth as hot blood ran down her body and dripped onto the floor. The pain filled her, roared through her, ripped her apart inside; it was more intense than any of the other times that she'd suffered through this torture.

The worst thing about this was that it forced her to recognize that there was nothing that she could do to escape this. The man gripping her waist held her too tightly for her to even think of trying to pull free, while her hands and feet were bound. Her mouth was filled with the gag, and she couldn't will anything but pain, terror, and weariness into her eyes. She was utterly helpless to resist these filthy... animals.

So she squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to will away the pain by ignoring it. She counted, she quizzed herself on obscure facts, she even sang inside her head. The pain seemed to ease, lessening from a roaring riptide that engulfed her, to a dull, jagged, insistent throbbing. What happened? Something wasn't right...

She opened her eyes onto a strange scene. All of the men had fallen to their knees on the flagstones; their masked faces were turned to the floor. The knife that her current tormentor had used was lying beside his hand on the floor, blood pooling around it. There was no movement from them as two tall figures in dark robes entered the room.

One of them was the self-styled Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Lord Voldemort. His skin, whiter that bleached bones, almost shone under the flickering light from the sconces that lit the small chamber. He stood tall, his hands hanging at his sides as he surveyed the room. His wide, slit-like nostrils twitched as he smelled her blood, and he turned to look at her.

His wide, vivid scarlet eyes met hers, and she was frozen in place, like a bird that has looked into a snake's eyes and has seen death, but is powerless to stop it. She felt her breathing and heart beat speed up as terror flooded through her system. Then he looked away, and she could move again, limited though her movement was.

The other man... It couldn't be. She had always suspected, of course, but before now she had had no proof. Now, though... that he could inspire such fear told her even more. He was the Dark Lord's right hand man!

He sneered at her, pleased at having hidden his secret from her for so long. Then he turned to his master, fell to his knees, and said, "... This, Master. This woman, this worthless, useless woman. This filthy Mudblood is all that I desire. She was my catch, after all, and I claimed her before they took her from me. I had planned to ask you before, but you sent me on the last... mission... before I had a chance to ask." He bowed his head, and she nearly choked when Voldemort reached out and laid one pale, long-fingered hand on the other man's head, and caressed the other man's hair as though soothing a frightened puppy.

His high, cold voice echoed throughout the chamber as he said, "Since you have done so well, my son, on you last mission, and since you are my most loyal servant, I shall let you have her. My only condition is that you must have her ready in two weeks' time to tell me what I need to know. So do whatever you like with her, but she must be able to talk in two weeks. That is all."

The second man raised his eyes up from the floor, and thanked his master, then rose and came over to inspect his new "property", since that was what she had become.

He circled her, running his fingers across the heaviest bruises, which made her wince. She could feel his eyes running up and down her body, and she tried to pull away. Her body screamed with the extra effort, causing tears to run down her face even as she swung back into his embrace.

He pulled her closer, and in a low, soft voice, he whispered, "Ah, so you're a spirited filly. Well, don't think that that will save you. I like spirit in my women."

He seized the knife from the man who had tentatively offered it to him, and stood, wrapping his arms around her. She tried to struggle, but she hurt too much.

Then she fell, only to be caught by the arms around her. He must have cut the ropes that bound her wrists, but she couldn't feel them anyway. It was only when he had settled her in the cradle he made of his arms that she realized that her feet were free as well.

She looked up, her eyes meeting his, knowing that what she had suffered from them was far worse that anything that he could do to her, and couldn't help but feel that she was being rescued.

He nodded to someone, and a sharp blow landed on her temple, causing her to become completely limp in his arms. He re-arranged his arms so that one rested beneath her knees, and the other under her shoulders, much like she would have held a baby. Everything was quickly becoming hazy, and the last thing that she heard was a high, cold voice that said "And of course, there will be punishment for those who damaged your property." Then he laughed, a shrill, humorless laugh filled with triumph.

Her final thought before she fell into the dark bliss of unconsciousness' was: That's what he remembers of him? And then, she slept.

She was left in the merciless grasp of the right hand man of Voldemort, Wizarding-kind's worst enemy; someone she'd known for twelve years. A man who was merely called RP by those who served him. A man that she'd known as...

Draco Malfoy.