Captured
The room—if it could even be called such a place—was dark, dank, and cold. The walls were cut of lifeless stone and felt as if they were closing in on him more with each passing hour. There were no windows, no light, nothing except the hard rock, and the silence was complete. He may have been in a deep cellar beneath a crowded manor or an attic tower abandoned for years, he did not know. He only knew endless night and the constant chill of dead air.
He didn't mind the darkness as much as the cold. Even the tedious silence didn't bother him, really; he could almost hear his own heart beating at times, and he let it lull him to sleep every few hours, knowing he would need his strength to survive whatever happened the next time the door opened and his captors returned to torment him.
The cold, however, threatened to break him. At times he shivered so hard he thought his very bones would shatter from the force of his convulsions. His fingers were ice and could barely clutch the dirty blanket that had been thrown to him with his last piece of bread and water.
He thought about curling up in his Animagus form to conserve both energy and heat, but he was not ready to give up his secret quite yet. And the ragged gash running from behind his ear down across his neck and shoulder had sapped him of energy; his captors had barely cleaned it and set a loose bandage over it, refusing him even a basic healing spell. If he managed the change, he wasn't sure he would be able to return to his human form, and he did not wish to die like an animal.
The hours passed slowly, each a long, dark blur of suffocating cold and silence. How long he had been there, he had no idea. More than a day, less than a week. His memory was hazy, vague images stitched together by shadows: he remembered leaving the house in Haverleigh where he'd been on assignment after Gideon Prewett had arrived to relieve him. He had wandered toward the edge of the village for a breath of fresh air, alone. There was a sharp crack of Apparition as a masked Death Eater had stepped out from around a corner in front of him, four more appearing instantly behind him. He vaguely remembered taking out at least two assailants, but then he'd been hit hard, his wand spinning away from nerveless fingers, blood splattering across his face from the brutal slash across his neck. A second spell had sent him crashing to his knees, and the pain of the Cruciatus Curse coursing through his body was the last thing he remembered.
He awoke imprisoned, with no recollection of how he had got there or how long he had lain on the dirty floor, his wound scarcely tended and surely infected by now. His shoulder throbbed, at times burning with heat and yet at times so ice cold he was sure he would freeze to death, though it was only November and he was not yet even twenty.
It had probably been three days at least, based on his captor's schedule. By his best guess, they brought him bread and water every five or six hours. It was always a silent, masked assailant who appeared. They cast increasingly brutal curses, spells he had never seen let alone heard of. Yet they asked no questions, the tortuous visits only sapping his strength until it took effort to even sit upright. He refused to lose hope; instead he held fast to his anger, that they would do this to him, when he had no idea who they were or what they wanted, other than to inflict more pain and suffering. He grew determined to survive, just to spite them.
He clung, too, to the idea that someone would find him. Someone must be searching for him by now. Assuming he hadn't been killed as well, Gideon would have told the Order when he hadn't returned. His friends would stop at nothing to find him, because he would do the same for them: it was just a matter of time. He had to survive, had to keep his head clear and be ready to escape should the opportunity present itself. He had to live—for them, and for her.
The stone door of his prison cell rippled, and he shook himself from another restless sleep. He wanted to stand to face his captors, but he did not have the strength to do much more than hold his head up against the wall and stare defiantly at the dark shape that entered the room. A bit of bread was thrown in his lap, but no drink; he grinned, knowing it would infuriate his captors.
"What, fresh out of muddy water then? How will I choke down my gourmet meal without it?" He knew it would get him punished, but he didn't care. It was his only way of defying them now, with words. They had his wand, but not his voice, and he would throw whatever words he could at them to keep it.
An invisible backhand sent him sideways sprawling to the floor, his head hitting the cold stone hard. He took a deep breath and sat up again, casually stuffing a bit of bread into his dry mouth. He tasted blood with it; he must have bit his lip.
"You're a dirty blood traitor, you dog," hissed a voice from behind the mask. "It's all you deserve and all you'll get." It was the first time he had heard any of his captors speak, and he struggled to place the voice.
"Right on both accounts," he murmured, peering into the man's masked face, trying to see into his eyes. To his surprise, the Death Eater pulled back his mask and revealed the thick, bearded face of Rodolphus Lestrange. Lestrange smirked at him, lips curving into a cruel smile as he raised his wand.
"Hello, cousin. It's nice to see you again."
Before he could retort, Sirius was curling in upon himself once more as the Cruciatus Curse slammed into him. Waves of pain coursed through his chilled, weak body, and he clamped his teeth, refusing to let a single sound escape that would satisfy the man standing over him. He took it in, shutting his eyes to the agony, the only sign he felt anything at all.
"So it's true," murmured Lestrange, raising his wand and circling him. "You are the strong, silent type." He cast another curse, and Sirius convulsed once again, drawing more blood from his lips as he bit through them to keep the screams inside. When it stopped, he drew several long breaths before slowly sitting up and glaring at his cousin-by-marriage.
"Fuck you," he spat, blood hitting the ground at the man's feet. Lestrange merely raised an eyebrow.
"Such language for a pure-blood," he mock-reprimanded. "Although you're such a traitor you're barely recognizable as a pure-blood, yet alone a Black."
"Is that what this is about?" Sirius asked, willing himself not to wheeze as he struggled to catch his breath; something in his chest felt ripped and broken, probably a rib. "My family?"
"You're an embarrassment," Rodolphus replied, sounded disgusted. "You've dishonored and shamed your family. Regulus has earned a place of honor with the Dark Lord, yet you remain a blight on the family tree—a never-ending thorn in our side."
"I was blasted off years ago," Sirius protested, then nodded in understanding. "But apparently that's not permanent enough. Bella put you up to this."
Rodolphus snorted and kicked him, leaving what would certainly be a deep bruise on his thigh. The unexpected physical assault made him gasp in shock, and Lestrange laughed at him. "No, but she certainly supported it. This was my idea. "
"For being a blood traitor?" Sirius asked. "That's all?"
"No," Lestrange replied, inclining his head with an evil glint in his eye. "For defiling my sister as well. I know you saw her again."
Sirius was silent, willing himself not to give anything away. He instinctively knew he could not lie his way out of whatever they had planned for him. Lestrange was right: he had seen Arlienne, before he had met Gideon in Haverleigh for their assignment. No one knew, not even James. How had Rodolphus found out?
"So why not just kill me now and rid the world of my filthy presence?" he said instead. He wondered if that was indeed the plan; it seemed unlikely Lestrange would let him live now that he had revealed why he had taken him. Sirius had been attacked by the Lestranges once before for seeing Arlienne, barely escaping with his life in Diagon Alley almost two years earlier. Arlienne had been sent to France after that incident and had only recently returned. He had been desperate to see her; now he was wondering if that single tryst would cost him his life—or worse, hers. "You could literally solve both your problems with one spell."
"Oh, I will, for her," Lestrange replied, alarmingly casual as he paced before him once more. "But first I want to have a bit of fun—for what you did to my brother last month. You seem to have something against my family as well as yours."
"For what I did to—" Sirius trailed off, straining to remember. It had been weeks ago, a small skirmish with Death Eaters outside Knockturn Alley, a quick and almost exhilarating fight that had ended with nothing more than a sore arm that a good bottle of Firewhiskey had set right. He remembered taking down a Death Eater with a particularly strong Hurling Hex, sending him crashing into a pile of rubbish bins. He never knew who it had been or how badly the man had been injured, for the Death Eaters had escaped, one of them Apparating out with their unconscious colleague. Apparently the injured man had been Rabastan Lestrange, and his brother was out for revenge.
"So what did he walk away with?" Sirius asked, summoning as much insolence as he could. "A bump on the head? A scratch on his arm? A nick to his pride?"
Lestrange kneeled before him, narrowing his eyes. "He walked away with a broken nose and a dirty scar from a jagged rubbish bin." He ran his index finger down Sirius's face almost tenderly. "Right about there." He jabbed his finger into the wound at his neck, and Sirius sucked in a breath as sparks of pain shot through him.
"Sod off," Sirius snapped, tearing his head away from the man's vile touch.
"I don't think so, Sirius," Rodolphus replied, his voice soft and low as he drew out the name almost seductively. "I think you need another lesson first." He examined his wand, grinning cruelly. "Don't disgrace your family, Black—or mine. Especially when they are both much, much stronger than you and your pathetic Order."
The wand was at his throat. Sirius stared hard at Rodolphus Lestrange, refusing to back down, knowing it was his one and only defense, his nerve. The curse hit him hard, though, and his last thought before losing consciousness was not of his family, or even Arlienne, but of his best friend, and how they had always planned to die together. . .
End Notes:
And so begins another chaptered story for the Marauders. If this story looks familiar, that is because I began posting it a year ago on MNFF, but took it down for personal reasons. I do hope to finish it this time, particularly as it is half-finished already
This story takes place about two years after another story I wrote, Raindrops. To fill in a bit of background: Arlienne Lestrange is the sister of Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange. Sirius started seeing her during his seventh year at Hogwarts, but when her family found out, he was attacked in Diagon Alley, and Arlienne was forced to transfer to Beauxbatons. It was a bit of a side plot in Raindrops and wiggled its way as a side plot into this one as well. I hope you enjoy this story—it will be a somewhat dark, bumpy ride, as it does take place at a particularly dark time in the war. Please be aware of warnings for violence, profanity, character death, mental disorders, substance abuse, and sexual situations.
Thank you to lea/mugglegirlmaurader for helping me with this story. She is my muse and I appreciate her support!
Finally, reviews are love, because I have my doubts. :)
