School: Durmstrang
Theme: Cruciatus (pain)
Prompts: Graham Montague (main), Funeral, Lord Voldemort
Year: 2
WC: 2913
See end of work for an authors note explaining the prompt use. Page breaks used to show a change of time and/or setting.
•─────⋅ ⋅─────•
One breath. Two breaths. The last vestiges of sleep slipped away from his grasp, calm dreams of grey nothingness being replaced by the harshness of reality and the ever-constant pain. His limbs were heavy, weighted down into the mattress by the charmed blanket but Graham could still feel the pain lurking just underneath the surface, electricity ready to strike. He cracked his eyes open, brow furrowing at the bright light filtering in from the curtains, squinting to read the projected numbers hovering just above his head. They seemed to dance, warping briefly into the skull spitting out a snake that haunted his dreams causing him to flinch reflexively backwards, biting back a scream of pain. Seven am, time to get up, hopefully before the Healer arrived this time.
The blanket, patchworked and worn by hands other than his own, easily slid back at a thought, the comforting restriction slipping away like plunging into a cold bath, pain prickling through his limbs like needles. Graham cautiously flexed his fingers, twitched the muscles in his arms, bracing himself for the wave of pain that could potentially follow even the smallest movement. Blissful nothingness, a blessing rarely received.
"And honestly do I deserve it?" he wondered aloud, soft enough to not be overheard, voice scratchy with disuse. He was trapped in this broken body, with this broken mind by his own actions after all. One childish mistake not only destroyed his life with needle like precision, but also the lives of so many countless people, so what was a little pain compared to all that suffering?
Footsteps outside his door, a shadow passing by but lingering outside his door for just a few heartbeats longer than necessary.
"I'm awake, I'm fine Mam," Graham called, a small smile coming to his lips, as he continued his slow movements, pain spitting from his joints but dulled, manageable. That was a good sign.
"Alright," his Mam replied after a few seconds. Graham could picture her, one hand hovering above the doorknob, fighting the urge to come in but knowing the lack of faith that action would show, the other hand fisted in the cord of her dressing gown.
"You give us a shout if you need us," she said finally, her shadow beginning to slip away from the door.
"I will," he reassured her, waiting until he couldn't hear her feet on the hard wood floors, straining until he knew she was out of earshot and cast 'Silencio', the magic trickling out of his mouth until it was wrapped around him, a sensation almost like that of a bubble hovering a few inches above his skin. His parents would never trust him again if they knew he was masking this side of his pain from them. They had tried to make everything as easy as possible following the disaster in his fifth year that left him broken and twisted and throughout the war that followed. They had given up everything for him, and he didn't deserve it, could never deserve it.
One breath. Two breaths and push-
He screamed, pain, so much pain, never ending pain everywhere, no escape, no end-
Graham forced it back, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth hanging open, his teeth bared. He gasped for air, entire body trembling as he sat upright, arms shaking uncontrollably from the strain. Had to move, had to move again now! The handles were over his head, he knew they were there, they were always were he needed them, he just needed to reach up and grab them. A sob tore from his throat at the prospect of moving again, pain rearing up once more like a lion ready to pounce. Every morning the same and it hadn't beaten him yet.
Graham collapsed into the wheelchair, breathing heavily, sweat sticking his hair to his face, arms twitching as his muscles spasmed, the mild discomfort a welcome relief from the all-encompassing pain of a few moments prior. Every morning for the last two years, the same whirlwind of pain and come downs, numbness and artificial spell silence. He had read somewhere, a desperate escape from the mind-numbing boredom of endless hospital rooms with the same four blank white walls crushing him slowly, of an order of monks who would whip themselves bloody to purge their sins from them, a sense of religious obligation in the causing of pain and the shedding of blood. Self-flagellation, the book had called it, the picture accompanying it a woodcarving, the man's face twisted in pain even as he gazed tortured eyes towards the heaven. It seemed fitting, Graham mused as he wiped the spit away from his mouth, taking the stab of pain without some much as a grunt. Here he was, inflicting physical pain on himself and about to inflict emotional pain, for some sense of purpose or forgiveness from a power higher than himself that he knew would never come. It had to be done, it was his penance.
"You know you don't have to go."
"I know Dad," Graham answered, watching his father watch him out of the corner of his eye, his face lowered towards the bowl of cereal, spoon gently tapping against the side as his hands shook.
"You didn't fight, you played no part in that war," the older man continued, oblivious to the glare his wife was sending his way, "It is admirable that you want to support your classmates after everything but-"
"Darling?"
The elder Graham Montague looked up towards his wife, swiftly recognising the look on her face with the speed of a long married man and stopped talking.
"I need to go Dad," Graham replied, glancing between his parents, head still lowered.
"Okay."
And that was that. His fate was sealed just like it had been three years ago when he made that choice to apparate from the dark space between broken Vanishing Cabinets and then again when he recounted the story to his small group of friends. It was almost funny how the little things, inconsequential at the time, that held the greatest impact. Graham refocused his attention on his food, on the tiny trembling of his fingers, of the dull ache of tense muscles spasming. He was here, he was alive and really what more could he ask for after the part he played in the start of the war that caused countless others unspeakable pain? He swallowed down another mouthful of the soggy cereal, ignoring the look his parents exchanged over his head.
•─────⋅ ⋅─────•
The wheelchair was both a blessing and a curse. When people looked at him, they didn't see Graham Montague, former Slytherin. They just saw the chair. Their eyes never lingered long on him, choosing instead to shoot glances out of the corners of their eyes, gaze as palpable as the dirt underneath his wheels. As if he didn't notice them looking at him. He fixed his gaze dead ahead, ignoring the small fires of whispers that erupted in his wake. The Wizarding community was progressive in several ways but chronically backwards in others, their attitudes towards wheelchairs being one of them.
"Young Master is okay? Another potion?" squeaked Leemy, her eyes wide and worried, twisting the embroidered pillowcase she wore round and round in her hands. It took some time for her words to filter through the fog pain potions created in his head, the wool muffling his thoughts a necessary evil to use the chair to travel to funerals, the ground uneven and jarring beneath his wheels.
"'M fine, Leemy," Graham mumbled, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth as they stopped a little way off from the gathering. He leant his head back against the headrest, fatigue pulling at his eyelids, but he resisted the urge. He had to do this, he had to for all the pain he inadvertently caused.
So many funerals, so many gatherings of a sea of dark clothed figures, ravens hopping and cawing in a circle, so many tears. He Who Must Not Be Named was dead, truly dead this time, everyone knew that. Harry Potter, the fabled Boy Who Lived, had killed him. Graham knew him as a skinny scared looking boy, glasses too big for his face, and bane of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He pushed himself up, a grunt of pain escaping him sending Leemy scrambling for the pain potion.
"I don't need any more potion Leemy," he reassured her without looking, eyes locked on the slowly shifting group of black robed figures below. It sent a shiver rolling down his spine even now. He had been isolated from the war, a prisoner in his own body, but the pictures splashed across the front pages of the illegally ran newspapers, ink staining his fingers, showed the gatherings of Death Eaters in their long black robes. He didn't know how other people could stand it, but all part of his penance. There were a few flashes of colour in the crowd below, mostly the shocking red hair of the Weasley family, staples at every funeral like Graham himself. And where the Weasley family went, the Saviour himself was not far behind. Graham sat back in his chair, a few sparks of pain leaping to respond to his movements and settled in to observe the funeral, a malaise of dark thoughts swirling in his mind, the ever-present thrum of 'If only, if only' like a second heartbeat in his ears.
•─────⋅ ⋅─────•
"Graham? Graham Montague?"
Graham froze, lit cigarette halfway on its return to his mouth. This was unexpected. He recognised the voice, how could he not?
"You're gonna have to walk round the front Weasley. I can't really turn very well in this thing," Graham answered slowly, apprehension crawling over his skin. He could feel the clamminess slip across his skin, blood draining from his face. Leemy glanced up at him, her mouth parted as if to ask a question but she remained blessedly silent.
One of the Weasley twins slipped round the front of his chair, mouth slightly agape as his eyes roved the expected path over Graham, the chair and then over the chair again.
"My eyes are up here Weasley," Graham said with a snort of laughter, taking a long drag from the cigarette, herb sweetened smoke soothing the flares of pain in his back.
"I'm- I'm sorry," the twin apologised, one hand reaching up almost reflexively to rub at the space where his left ear had been, "I hate people staring at me, then I go ahead and do it myself."
Graham waved a hand, biting back the hiss of pain. It was strange how easily he could forget that every action brought with it the potential for mind numbing pain.
"I didn't know you know Creevey," the twin continued, peering down at the crowd below, now mostly dispersed.
"I don't," Graham answered shortly, not looking up at him.
"What happened?"
Ah there it was. It seemed like that question was the only outcome of anyone striking up a conversation with him on the rare occasion someone looked past the chair and saw him, changed as he was by the passage of time.
"Well Weasley, turns out blind Apparation can really mess you up," Graham replied, unwilling to hide the twist of annoyance in his voice. He knew his words were barbed, intended to hurt, to rip at the conscience of one of the two who triggered this turn of events. It was ultimately his own fault, this he knew, but some small twisted part of him wished for vindication, for someone else to understand the burden he carried. He could almost see the wheels turn in Weasley's head, saw the exact moment when the realisation hit him, blood draining from his face, freckles standing out starkly against his bone white skin.
"When me and-" The Weasley twin drew in a shaking breath, unable to finish his sentence, eyes sweeping over Montague's chair once more. This wasn't vindication, this was guilt Graham felt, twisting his stomach so violently he thought he was about to be sick.
"You didn't know," he said quietly, a deep regret colouring his past actions, always his tongue running too far ahead, "Nobody knew this was possible."
The twin shook his head mutely, pressing one hand to his mouth, a faint green tinge in his cheeks.
"F-Fred died," the twin spat out as if the words would choke him if he let them, "So I'll apologise for us both."
Oh shit. Graham was definitely the asshole in this situation.
"Don't," Graham answered, cutting off the words George was struggling to find, "It was a childish mistake. You have nothing to apologise for."
This conversation was going to haunt his nightmares, the dead look on George's face even as he shook his head in disbelief at Graham's words.
"I think I do Montague, even if you say I don't. We're adults now, got to pay the piper for past mistakes sometime."
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind them, George turning to look while Montague drew in another lungful of smoke, needles beginning to trail in random patterns up and down his legs.
"I'll send you an owl, we can talk. I have some inventions for people with prosthetics, humour doesn't quite pay all the bills," George said quickly, pulling his coat tighter around himself, no longer looking at Graham, but at the person behind him.
It was a strange sensation, the shifting of some of his burden even as Graham felt horrendously guilty for his blunt words, a lessening of responsibility. He nodded, a sharp quick movement, and George returned it in kind, slipping past the new intruder to re-join his family.
"Montague."
"Fuck off Malfoy."
There was a laugh behind him, not Malfoy's, but another unknown person.
"I like him," the unknown person announced, their voice almost gratingly bright for such a dour occasion.
"Fuck you too then," Graham replied, sucking down the last few dregs of his cigarette, crushing the butt into the arms of his chair, grey ash trickling over the side.
"I just need to talk to you for a few minutes, then you never have to see me again."
Malfoy sounded almost contrite, a harsh contrast to the arrogant boy Graham remembered so clearly. It was almost enough to make him accept the offer, but pain was twisting in his gut, searing behind his eyes, potion worn off so long ago he couldn't even remember what the blissful fogginess felt like.
"Can you not skip the first part and just leave Malfoy?"
"Please Montague."
With a noise of disgust, Montague gave in, curiosity piqued at the change in Malfoy, swiping his hand to signal the man could move closer.
"Leemy, potion please," Graham hissed out behind bared teeth, arm beginning to spasm and twitch uncontrollably, nails digging into the arms of his chair. The elf moved quickly, potion bottle appearing in her grasp as if it had never left. She glanced at the half moon idents his nails were making in the chair and slipped closer, one spindly arm slipping underneath his arm to press against his stomach. One small pop and the deed was done, potion slipping straight into his system without having to be drunk. Blessed relief followed swiftly on its heels, coldness washing over him as he gasped for breath, head thunking backwards against the seat rest.
"You've got five minutes Malfoy," Graham gasped, glaring at the man standing next to him, his face carefully blank.
"I wanted to apologise," Malfoy said, wasting no time with futile questions.
"For what?" Graham snarled, hackles immediately up.
"I took advantage of what you told me when you were delirious and in a lot of pain and just looking for a friend. I used that knowledge to bring the Death Eaters into the castle. My fault not yours, I betrayed you and I can't apologise for that enough."
What was even happening today? What had started out as a simple enough funeral wound up setting his entire world view on kilter, the bed rock of his core beliefs crumbling beneath his feet. Graham at that very moment wouldn't have been surprised if He Who Must Not Be Named rose from his grave to dance the hula.
"Have you any idea what you've done?" Graham said finally, scrabbling blindly for another cigarette.
Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, but Graham cut him off.
"I have believed for the past three years that I helped start this war, that I played a pivotal role in inadvertently bringing that madman into power and killing thousands of people and you just waltz in here? And apologise? Fuck you Malfoy and fuck off."
Graham signalled to Leemy blindly, ignoring the film of tears washing over his eyes and with a pop that felt like dying, a scream ripping from his lungs as they landed, they were home.
"Graham? Graham!"
His mother cupped his face in her hands, on her knees in the dirt, eyes searching his face.
"I think I need to go see a therapist Mam," Graham said finally, leaning into his hands heavily, his eyes meeting hers as she smiled in relief, the sun peeking through eternal dark clouds.
"We'll look for one now," she promised, kissing the top of his head.
Graham sighed, slipping the cigarette she was ignoring into his sleeve. Maybe things would get better, just maybe he didn't have to pay this penance alone.
•─────⋅ ⋅─────•
Cruciatus: Monatgue blind apparates out from a Vanishing Cabinet which was near fatal and he was disorientated afterwards so I just pushed that further into the realm of serious damage and chronic physical pain. I also used mental/emotional pain of him taking blame for the Death Eaters arriving in the castle and everything that happened after.
Graham Montague: Main character POV
Funeral: Given his emotional pain, some sort of penance would be in order in his way of thinking so going to the funerals of the people he believed he had a hand in killing would be a dual hit of emotional pain and cleansing.
Lord Voldemort: While he doesn't actually appear in the story in person, his prescence impacts on everything that the recovering Wizarding society is doing and is the direct cause of the funerals/emotional pain.