The Dark Angel

Severus stepped forward next, pointing his wand lazily at the boy. “Patrificus Totalus.”

“Good idea Severus,” Voldemort said, amused. “Let’s show our Gryffindor Angel here how the light side works.”

Angel remembered all those stories about aurors, ‘…they put a body bind on those they capture, so they can’t scream under torture. It makes the whole thing MUCH more painful, and the victims’ screams won’t be heard by those not meant to. Some of them die because the body bind makes it slightly harder to breathe, and with the added pain of the torture, it becomes utterly impossible…’ The Potions Master was the one to laugh last then, Angel waited resignedly for the third Cruciatus that night. But it wasn’t that.

“Ponaderum!” Severus shouted. It hit him full blast, but to Angel’s surprise, he felt the effects very faintly; he only felt a tingling sensation, unpleasant, but not painful. ‘What the hell?’ he thought. And then he remembered, ‘…not all curses but better than nothing…’ the Potions Master was refraining from actually torturing him, but why? Mirth? It seemed incredible. He was a Death Eater, wasn’t he? He broke the curse at last, and let up the body bind. Angel widened his eyes in disbelief, but couldn’t consider it further as Avery’s curse hit him.

He had thought they would be too proud to use Muggle means of torture, but he had been wrong; the most horrible part had been when some decided to take pleasure in physical abuse. Lucius of all people decided to take advantage of a purely Muggle hooked whip, almost ironic. He gulped as Nott stepped forward.

‘Perhaps I should have treated him better today,’ he thought as the Death Eater took out a knife.

Samuel Nott felt extremely confused, and…stupid. He had really believed that the boy had used some strong dark magic to force the hat to put him in Gryffindor, it explained the long delay in the Hat’s announcement. And wasn’t keeping a closer eye on Potter and possibly killing him the main purpose of Voldemort’s son coming to Hogwarts? And then there was this show. It was really confusing. But the first round had passed with only curses and now it was the second round; the one they could use any method they wanted. Nothing had happened during the first. The lord hadn’t gone angry or tortured a Death Eater.

‘He really wants to torture the boy then,’ he thought. He understood that it was now his turn. ‘Not that I mind it very much,’ he grinned madly under the mask as he pulled out his knife. He loved nothing more than torturing the helpless, taste the despair of inevitability in their eyes… children were especially effusive in such sentiments. And seeing them in the high and mighty Dark Prince was an extra bonus. The boy hadn’t cried under the torture. ‘Never mind child. You will when I’m finished.’

It was only the third round, and yet to him it seemed like an eternity. He was now lying motionless on the floor in a pool of his own blood and vomit. It had been inevitable with the pain of the creative curses the Death Eaters threw at him mercilessly; most of them combined from two or more curses, which were definitely painful enough by themselves. It was Severus’ turn again. Angel almost sighed in relief as he was put under body bind. The Potions Master would pull the same stunt again. He didn’t exactly hear the curse but a moment later a horrible pain engulfed him. He wanted to writhe and scream but couldn’t. It was getting harder to breathe.

‘This is how I will die then. Suffocated under a curse,’ his agonized mind thought. After what seemed an impossibly long time, the body bind was broken up and so was the curse. But the pain didn’t leave. Angel’s eyes widened and he screamed.

The boy’s scream made Severus’ blood freeze. He had to remind himself not to freeze or shake and step back in a bored manner to his place. The potion’s effect had obviously worn off. He resisted the urge to run to the boy’s side. He exactly knew how it felt to be cursed under a body bind. He knew how it felt not to be able to scream. It had been Frank Longbottom’s favorite. But the boy was still screaming. Why? Even with its full effect the curse’s pain shouldn’t last for more than half a minute. He then remembered. Lucius had used Nevra Incedus. He kicked himself mentally. Convulsis would have long lasting effects if mixed with that. It would continue for hours, HOURS. He was at the edge of casting a certain unforgivable on himself when he understood that the Dark Lord was talking to him.

“It was…beautiful Severus; intelligent as always, I see. You quite pleased me.” He bowed curtly, trying to find a way to block his ears from both the father and the son.

“Creative today, are we Severus?” Voldemort drawled during the fifth round, unsatisfied. “Don’t you have any amusing potions?”

“I do, my lord.” Severus said, pulling out a vial from one of the various pockets of his cloak. He walked up to Angel; just as he was about to pour it down his throat, Voldemort interrupted.

“Wait,” he said. Snape looked up at the Dark Lord and so did Angel.

‘I knew, I knew,’ he thought. It would all end now. Dad had regretted it.

“Bring it here,” Voldemort said. Severus got up and walked to the throne. He fell to his knees and held the vial up for his master.

“What does this exactly do?”

“It burns the inner membrane of the stomach and results into horrible aches.”

“Really? How much is the dose?”

“One gulp would suffice, my lord.”

Voldemort nodded thoughtfully. “Are you telling the truth Severus?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You’d better do. Your long stay with the Old Fool hasn’t created some stupid feelings in you that I’d rather not name, or changed your faith in me; has it my dear professor?”

“Never, my lord.”

“We’ll see how true it is. Wormtail?”

“Yes my lord.” The small man stepped forward.

“Take a gulp.” Severus was more than satisfied to see him whimper and go pale.

“B-but… m-my lord…” he stuttered.

“You aren’t very fond of that pitiful life of yours then, are you?”

“N-no, my lord…I mean yes my lord.” He crawled forward shakily and took a gulp. He seemed undisturbed at first but then he writhed on the ground, screaming and vomiting blood.

“Excellent Severus. I’m glad you haven’t changed as much as some of your brothers think you have. Go ahead.”

“Thank you my lord.”

“Shut up Wormtail, I have more interesting screams to listen to right now. Patrificus Totalus.” Wormtail froze but tears kept streaming from his rat-like eyes, dripping to the floor. Blood poured from his mouth, staining the hem of his master’s robes. But Voldemort didn’t pay attention as he watched Severus pour the potion down his son’s throat. A moment later blood curdling screams echoed through the halls.

During the last round he couldn’t even scream, as his throat was awfully hoarse with the added dryness courtesy of Severus’ potion. He had just soundlessly writhed on the ground locking his gaze to the red eyes after every turn, in a wish to find there something to hold on, something that resembled fatherly warmth or regret or at least the reason of this horrible show. But there was nothing, except for utmost cruelty, and the evil crooked smile playing on the thin pale lips. Was being a Gryffindor that great a sin?

A question far more painful than the tortures themselves echoed through his head for all the time: why?

The sixth round had finished at last by Lucius, this time much more confidant than he and others had been in the first rounds. His father rose from his chair and stalked toward him. Now wearing Nagini around his thin neck.

“Sssssorry young maaassssster,’ she hissed sadly. “I tried to dissssssuade him but...”

“Shut up pathetic reptile!” his father hissed angrily, hexing the snake’s jaws shut. “Now you don’t think I will let you die just that easily, son. Do you?” asked his father with feigned amusement.

Angel inhaled deeply and willed his lungs to co-operate to ask, “why?”

“Why do I kill all those other people?” Angel had never known the answer. But it was different.

He used his last bit of strength to say, “but I’m your son.”

“You are a LOSER,” the Dark Lord spat. “You can’t be my son.” Angel moaned as his father’s heavy boot was pressed against his chest. Voldemort leaned down on his knee, trying to put even more pressure on the broken ribs. He continued to talk, this time in Parsel Tongue.

“You never were.” He savored the hurt look in his son’s eyes. “You were always more like her, both in manners and looks. I DID try to save you but you refused to accept, you were too foolish for it. Just like her. She took you and ran away to the Muggle world, thinking that I couldn’t find her there. How very foolish of her. And now you…I think those two years were enough for the Muggles to corrupt you with their filth. You are a shame to me, and to Salazar Slytherin. You can’t even speak Parsel Tongue.” He smiled like a boa.

He continued in English, “I disown you here and now. I refuse that you are my son, or Salazar Slytherin’s heir. Die. And may your pathetic spirit be damned forever.”

Angel didn’t understand that for the second time that night he was crying. He had screamed, writhed, shrieked, moaned and struggled during the torture but hadn’t cried. Tears found their way down his bruised face, mixing with the blood and dirt. His father’s expression changed a bit, but only to turn into a mirthless smirk. Angel locked his eyes stubbornly with the red ones of the Dark Lord as he slowly rose his wand and muttered, “Translocus Morbis!”

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

There was a blur of different colors before his face hit damp soil and he immediately passed out. He woke up after a while. The events of that night rushed to his mind, the dungeon, the tortures, his father’s cool, ruthless voice and expression, his mother’s helpless screams.

“Dad,” he called desperately, praying to all powers listening that it had all been a nightmare and he was safely back in his room. He opened his eyes only to find out that he couldn’t see anything

‘I’m blind then.’ He thought fearfully, then tried to remember the last curse.

‘Translocus Morbis … I’m sure I have heard about it before,’ he thought, his eyes getting wide with horror when he remembered at last. If he could remember correctly, the curse moved you to one of the most dangerous places the caster could think of.

Hearing the sound of an animal breathing, he unconsciously reached for his wand, only to find it missing. He tried to back away but regretted it instantly. The pain that filled his body the moment he moved almost made him scream. He used one surprisingly useable arm to drag himself along, away from the sound. Stopping after each effort to rest. The breathing turned into a threatening snarl. He dragged himself faster despite the protest of his body. The animal came nearer, now he could now feel its warm breath on his chest. He reached out his hand to continue the dragging process when his hand touched some thing soft. It wrapped around his arm and he was dragged away at a horrendous speed. And everything went black again.

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

“ Hello there! How ’re ye guys?” Hagrid called as he passed the opening in which the acrumantula lived.

“Hello Hagrid! Would you like to join us for dinner?” Aragog answered.

“Nah thanks, I have hunted my own.” Hagrid said, patting the stag on his shoulder. “Bye for now.” He froze in his track when he saw what was the big spiders’ dinner. A boy was stuck in the middle of the web. He was half-naked, with ridiculous pieces of torn clothing that hung on his bloody and bruised body fluttering in the wind. He wasn’t struggling though; he was either unconscious or already dead.

“No! Wai’ a min’ there! That’s only a kid!”

“It is one of your kind Hagrid, but right now he is our food,” Aragog said in his deep voice.

“Nah. Wait,” Hagrid threw the stag he had hunted only few minutes ago to the ground. “Eat this instead! It’s still fresh. ’Caught ’im just a min’ ago.”

“Hagrid, I can’t….”

“Oh c’mon Aragog! It’s just as good an’ has much more meat then the skinny kid.” After a little more discussion Aragog gave in grudgingly. Hagrid picked up the boy carefully and dashed as fast as he could towards the huge castle of Hogwarts.

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

Lord Voldemort walked down the dark corridors in long angry strides. He stopped in front of a finely oriented door. The different door. All the doors in the household were black and ebony or gray and iron about the prison. All except this, which was a light shade of brown. The boy had said he was sick of all the black. And stranger than that, he had changed it for the boy’s desire, had been forced to do so. He smirked. How had a six-year-old boy made him, the greatest wizard of all times, to change a door’s color?

He gritted his teeth and swore in Parsel tongue. He shouldn’t have spoilt him. He remembered it clearly. The boy had said he wanted his room red or blue. He had snapped at him but the boy had been more stubborn. He had pouted, cast his infuriating puppy eyes and refused to eat or talk. He had gone around breaking things and even poured salt in his coffee. He was sure the house elves would never forget that day. He had killed the one who brought the coffee straight away and tortured the rest to an inch of their pathetic lives. But the important –and astonishing even to himself- point was that…he had done nothing to the boy. He had yelled at him and spanked him and imprisoned the boy in his room with a spell that kept it pitch black. But that was all. He went in the room after three hours, wearing the red eyes and determined to terrify the child into tears.

He stopped his memories. He didn’t want to remember the rest. He didn’t want to remember the small shaking boy who had ran up to him, hugged him tightly, cried and mumbled apologies in his robes. He didn’t want to remember that he hadn’t terrified the boy, that he had untangled the small arms from around his legs wordlessly, and a bit reluctantly, and left without a word, leaving the door open behind himself. He didn’t want to remember that he had changed the door’s color a week later. He didn’t want to remember the happy shriek of the boy as he ran down to his study and shouted thanks and hugged him around the neck despite being hexed thrice at his entrance because of the noise and forgetting to knock.

His hand wandered to the cold doorknob. He absently thought that the metal used to feel warmer.

“He isssn’t there,” Nagini hissed.

He pulled his hand back, glaring at the snake. “Do you want another hex?”

“No, Massster.”

“I thought not.” He sneered. But the reptile was right…or was she? Yes…perhaps the boy was in his room after all, sound asleep. Yes, he wouldn’t believe it. Believing it would make it final. It would mean that…. No. Nothing had happened. He hadn’t cast that curse on the boy- on his son. It was all one of his crazy nightmares. It just couldn’t have happened. Angel was in the room. He surely was. He had to be. He couldn’t have done it to his own son, could he?

He strained his ears to hear his son’s calm, heavy breathing, the sound that usually made him…angry. It was calm and undisturbed…confidant, as if no one and nothing in the world could disturb him. He gritted his teeth again. The boy’s confidence. The boy’s infuriating confidence. He scowled as a memory crept into his mind…

He had spoilt the boy. Most definitely. He had raised him into a weak brat. Or perhaps he had raised him to become too strong to be safe…that is to say, controllable. He strained his ears more. Still he could hear nothing. Why did he go to fetch the boy anyway? Why did he bother to look for his ex-girl friend who had escaped to the muggle world? Why on the earth should he have gone and brought his bastard child and raise him? Why didn’t he just kill the boy? Had he truly intended to keep Salazar Slytherin’s blood from being mingled with muggle filth? Or was it an excuse he had built up for himself later, after he had brought in the child. Did he love…? He banished the thought. Ridiculous. He was beyond such weaknesses. He wasn’t even remotely attached to the boy; he tried to persuade himself.

But he should have got rid of the boy long ago. What ever he had had in his mind, he should have killed the eleven year old boy who had ran out of the Torture Hall like a complete fool as soon as he had heard the Cruciatus curse. He had gone after him after some more minutes, ordering the Death Eaters to continue on their own as he was bored. He had found the boy crouched in a corner, pale and shaking. He had almost hexed the boy but Angel had started crying and said that he was too afraid of the Cruciatus. That his whole body had went hot and his head had filled with a woman’s screams. Voldemort, of course, had yelled and hexed him. But from then on he hadn’t let the boy hear the screams caused by the curse, in a fear that the boy might remember the whole thing one day. But why had he been afraid of Angel finding out? Afraid? It sounded quite odd and meaningless. He had no fears. Of course not.

He smiled wryly. Why should he think about all this any way? Angel was in his room, sound asleep. He was sure of that. He hadn’t done any harm to him. Those events had never happened. He had never tortured or killed his son. Yes. How could have been so silly to think that he had? He wouldn’t go and check though. And it wasn’t because he was afraid of the possibility of an empty, accusing bed to be revealed behind the door. No, he told himself, it was the certainty of having to deal with a cranky, insufferable teenager tomorrow at breakfast should he open that door. His long fingers released the door knob. He would not open the door. Tomorrow. Yes. He would talk to his son tomorrow.

“Good night,” he muttered, then turned on his heel and walked down the corridor and several flights of stairs. He could stifle the stubborn thoughts that still refused to leave his mind with some screams. Perhaps he could summon Wormtail and have some fun with the rat. He smiled evilly, forgetting all about teenaged boys and brown doors as he walked into the dungeons.