What is pain?
a distressing sensation in a particular part of the body
mental or emotional suffering or torment
From a pinprick to a broken arm. From a stomachache to a gashed head. From hunger to torture. Pain can mend. Pain can shatter. Pain can heal. Pain can harm. Pain causes life. Pain causes death.
But most of all, any man – be he an innocent child, a teacher, a friend, a brother, a lover, a stranger – can inflict pain. Without intent, without motive, and without purpose.
The worst pain?
It does not kill. It burrows into the skin, festering inside until the soft muscles give way. It infects the blood and bone. It moves to the lungs. There it sits and takes in the air you breathe until you are suffocating in your own body. Then to the mind it journeys, the pain. Your sanity is but a vague memory. Your senses ebb away, leaving you blind, deaf, and mute. Moving to the heart, it closes each gaping valve until the trembling muscle yearns to give way. You feel your heart sink under the weight, dropping… Dropping… Dropping. You cannot move. You cannot breathe. You can feel nothing but the pain that keeps burrowing into your skin, then to the muscles, then the blood and finally the bone. Eating you up inside, you realize there is nothing you can do. There is nothing you can do because the pain is buried so deep inside you that the only way to cast it out is to cast yourself away. Cast out your rotten soul. Cast out your body. Cast out your mind, your heart, your lungs…
Cast out the pain.
"Kill me," you implore with your final breath. A shell of a man at the feet of the enemy. This is how you die. Humiliated and defeated. Agonized and tortured. Alone. Pleading like a common dog.
Beg.
Make me a potion stronger than the Cruciatus, he says. Who are we to disobey? And so I begin. A potion worse than the Cruciatus. Is it possible? Let us dissect the curse at hand.
one thousand white-hot knives boring into your skin
Now, whatever does that feel like?
Have you carved your skin with a dagger? Have you cut lines along your veins, fascinated by the numbing pain and pooling blood? Have you pressed the tip into your neck, wondering how much pressure is too much?
No.
We have not.
What stupefies me is not the sensation of the torture, but rather about why the victim never acclimatizes to the pain or simply dies.
The pain adapts.
It is ever changing.
This is what we need. This is what we must focus on.
Making the potion better than the Cruciatus is simple. The potion works at sporadic intervals. With no predictable patterns, the torture can begin and end at any time. Unlike the Cruciatus that require proximity to the spell caster, the potion requires but a sip. An untraceable drug with near-lethal effects.
Perfection.
It has taken me years. Years of my life and countless frustrations. It is not in our best interests to give up. When there is a wand digging into the back of our heads, one thought and one thought alone runs through our mind. Don't get killed.
the essence of a leech
guile of a snake
the masquerade of poison
in sweet nectar. An ambrosia
How one must hate the victim to want such pain to be afflicted on body and soul… How can one hate so?
Make him suffer. Make him fear. Most of all, make him nothing.
And we shall. We shall make him nothing.
There. I see you. My prey. My victim. You trust with ease, you drink with ease. It reacts at once, choking you breathless and making you convulse. I feel my lips curl. Contempt? Pride? Both? Yes. Both. My designs come to life inside you – the one I will forever despise. I wonder what you are thinking at this moment. Does it feel as though a Cruciatus is being performed? Only for a moment. Then you will realize that it is worse. Much worse.
You are pulled out of your stupor of soundless agony, able to breathe and able to move. This is but the beginning. Just the beginning.
From the arms of safety, I whisk you away into a world unknown.
You find yourself in the room, cold as stone and black as soot. My heart. I laugh at the sordid irony. I am but your keeper. Very well… If you need to reside in my heart, very well. Chained to the walls by metal and magic, you are still asleep. I want to see tears running down onto the floor when you wake. I will wait.
And wait…
Wait.
Your eyes flutter open.
The Ministry has fallen. Dumbledore has fallen. Your friends have fallen. Only you remain, I murmur as though it were a lullaby.
Your eyes fall shut, lulled to sleep once again.
Sweet dreams.
That is enough for today. I rest easy, knowing my prisoner is beneath me. I sleep on my bed while you sleep on shards of pain. How long must I keep you? Until he calls for me. In what condition do I keep you? In no condition at all. He wants you broken. The potion will pierce flesh, skin, thoughts and will. I will do the rest. If there is anything left.
You wake up just as I take my seat, in time for the performance. You breathe deeply. Then the struggle begins. You start with your arms. Tug, tug, rattle. Then your legs. Pull, wrench, pull. Then your body. You slam yourself against the wall. What do you expect to realize? That you can break through stone and iron? No man can.
And then you let out the most magnificent scream.
It is magnificent because for so long have I been dreaming of this moment. In this moment, you would be crying out in torment and helplessness. You would be struggling, just as you are now, fruitlessly. You would scream.
It is as though my dreams are coming to life before me.
But dreams do that often, don't they? No, that is not what makes this magnificent.
It is the fact that I had dreamt it all wrong.
Your scream is not of torment and helplessness.
It is full of hate and fury. Frustration and murder. You want to kill me. You? You would kill me? Magnificent and fascinating. You have no words. Perhaps the situation has pushed all thoughts but the primal ones out of your mind. And instead of trembling and cowering, you fight? Are you truly this witless? You cannot fight. At the same time, I do not want you to give up. I haven't had time to play yet.
Your scream is quickly overtaken by a coughing fit. Enough gut wrenching coughs to cause you to spew those very same guts on the floor. And then you keep you head hanging to the side, your energy taken away. The room smells putrid. With a silent spell, I mask the odor. Disgusting, I tell you.
I believe you are attempting to find a way to break free. Your hair covers your brows but I catch a hint of concentration on it. Your breath is no longer labored and your composure returns. Disgusting, you echo. You look up.
Beautiful.
And then the pain descends. Your head snaps back, cracking against the wall. Your limbs shoot straight, taut and trembling. But now there is no sound. Blood trickles down the corner of your mouth. There is no sound because you want to make no sound. If I listen closely past the rattling of the chains and fumbling of fabric against stone, I can hear tortured screams stuck inside your throat. But it is not allowed to emerge.
Do you understand that having no way to vent the pain will only make it feel as though the agony had doubled?
While you can hold back screams, you can't hold back tears. Tears are innocent. From birth to death, you are drowning in tears. Tears flow down your face in torrents. Tears don't lie.
This goes on for an hour. I believe you have managed to mangle your tongue. I wonder if you will ever be able to speak again. Blood mixed with saliva runs down your chin, dripping into your shirt. Your wrists bleed and I would be astonished if your ankles weren't chaffed. I need to get closer.
Now I am before your, inspecting your features. I don't believe I have ever been this close to you without suffering consequences. I see the appeal I suppose. I am appalled that I think this way, but oddly stimulated as well. Untouchable once. Now at my beck and call.
Raking my hand through your midnight hair, I jerk your head back. You gasp involuntarily, your throat constricted by the angle. Our eyes meet, you staring up at me. Enjoyed you session? I ask, seeing the sapphires frost over.
Do what you want but I don't break, you whisper.
Why this infuriates me, I don't know. I slam my fist against your stomach, hearing you gag and wheeze. We will see, I tell him before leaving him in darkness once again.
The pain has pierced through skin.
Third day. Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place… Water, you croak as I walk in. I have forgotten. Even the strongest man needs water to survive. Thirst – another form of pain.
No, I tell you.
Water, you murmur again.
No.
Now.
No.
You shudder suddenly, chains clinking against the stone as your body moves on its own accord. Then you fall limp. My brows rise slowly. You are losing control of your bladder in front of me. Is this part of the potion or out of necessity?
My theory?
The pain caused by the potion is not only physical, but emotional in nature as well. I have thus far witnessed the physical. And the emotional pain is something I have not been prepared for. Relieving oneself in the presence of the enemy is humiliation at its best, is it not? Why would you do this in front of me when I had given you hours at night to yourself?
This must be the potion.
I hear a soft moan. No, you let out involuntarily as you feel the heat spread within you.
I search within myself when I feel my body clench. I am mortified for you.
You are wet now, sopping in your soiled pants. Your eyes remain closed. If you can't see me, then I can't see you. Isn't that right? In some way, it is true. If I can't see your emerald eyes, I can't see you. Worse than an animal, aren't you? I note complacently.
Give me water, you say as you shake from shock and anger.
No.
Now.
No.
You unveil yourself, opening your eyes. But these are not your eyes. I stared into them. These eyes are opaque and emotionless. The potion is wheedling into you yet again. Your lips part and you take in a silent breath. I beg you, you say quietly. I beg you for…
You break off with a loud roar, pulling at the chains and striking the stone with the side of your fists.
You have returned to your eyes. The hate and fury has returned.
I am… glad.
You are the lowest scum of this world, you spit out. The day I beg is the day I die, you finish, seething.
I wouldn't have it any other way, I tell you. It is the truth. You are the only one that could turn me into what I am today. I close the distance between us in two strides, wrenching your hair back. I feel strands breaking lose between my fingers. The stench of urine has filled the room long ago. I feel filthy, as though it has soaked through my clothes and into me. I will make you fear me. I will make you cower when you see me.
But right now all you do is stare defiantly into my eyes. No water for you until you flinch away from my touch. I move away without a word, leaving you with your nightmares.
I return the next day. Water, you say. You are dying. Not from the potion. You are dying because of me. I have never felt this dominant. I have never felt this rush. It is as though I am watching you wither away before me.
The day after. Water, you say. I will not let you die. I will let you believe you are dying, then I will bring you back. I will bring you back so you can waste away once again. The potion moves into you. Your mouth is open but no sound emerges. Your eyes are filled with unseen horror. Is the pain in your mind or your body now? I yearn to know. But you cannot answer even as I ask you. You cannot hear me. You cannot see me. It must be in your mind, then. I leave you thus.
I stagger to a halt when I find you the next day. How did you break out of your bonds? You are on your knees. Your ankles are still bound to the wall so the undersides of your feet are pressed against the cold stone. But your hands are on your stomach and your back is curved, hunched over. How did you break out?
Watch me, you whisper. Your eyes move to mine. No. Not your eyes. Eyes of the potion. Eyes of the leech, the snake, the poison. Your fingers trail down between your legs.
What are you doing? I ask, my voice so distant I hardly recognize it. Surely not what I think you are doing. Surely not…
Watch me, you say. The sound of the zipper echoes over your harsh breathing. Your lips are pulled up into a lecherous smile. Your hands, encrusted with your blood and sweat, stroke and pull. Your eyes stay on mine, the puppet master watching his audience for the appropriate reaction. And here was the marionette, moaning in time. Watch me, you beg. You are lurching now, fondling yourself for my benefit. You run your fingers down your leaking tip, pinching it.
Draco, you whisper while you lick your lips.
Everything is stirring inside me.
Draco, you groan before squeezing your arousal.
You say my name with such sweet conviction.
Draco, you cry out as you tremble with release.
Are you truly thinking of me?
The puppet master cuts away the strings.
Before the marionette can come to life, he must first understand that he used to something else. He used to be a performer. He used to be a piece of nothing that was brought to life by his master. I see that very same expression in your eyes as the opaque shifts. You look down at yourself, still stroking and teasing.
You ejaculate in front of me, raised on your knees and back arched with your head thrown back. I cannot see your eyes but I see the expression in your upturned face. Trauma and agony. You murmur incoherently as you spray on the floor. But still you don't scream away your pain. You hold it in. Like a puppet thrust into the unknown world, you are lost. Lost in your own mind, in your own body.
You fall forward jarringly. Unconscious.
I flick my wand at the rest of your bindings. I kneel beside you and turn you over onto your back. Blood cakes your nose where the bone has shattered. Skin has been flayed off where your forehead struck the floor. I repair these silently, only realizing afterwards that I didn't have to. You stir when you feel the pain flash away. Water, you murmur.
I conjure a cup and fill it with water. The essence of life. I tip it into your chapped lips. It does not go in until you come to your senses and understand what it is that is touching your mouth. You part your teeth, letting the water pool against your tongue. And you drink. You drink and drink and drink. Never coughing, never wasting. Every drop. And more. And more. Your hands regain their strength. But not to harm. To clutch my wrist and hold the cup steady. I feel the sticky substance stain my skin, sullying me. But you will not let go. You drink and I replenish. It is a circle of consumption.
You suddenly let go of me and roll onto your side to vomit. Out comes the water and nothing else. You try to keep it in, swallowing hard. Then you gag and spew the water onto the floor. No, no, no, you say shakily.
You whip around and grab the cup from my hand, downing the water in one gulp. A second later, you throw it up. The potion wants you to stay forever thirsty. No, you sigh as you faint once again. You faint because you understand. You understand that no matter how much water you drink, you will never be satisfied. Splayed immodestly on the floor surrounded by water, you sleep.
What have I created?
I am by your side when you wake once again. I don't believe either of us know what day it is. What time it is. What life this is. I am dying, you murmur.
No, I answer. You cannot die until you are killed, I explain. You may feel as though you are dying but you will live on. A week, a month, a year, an eternity… Who knows? I tell you.
I know, you reply. I am dying.
So? I ask.
You can't talk any further as you are clutching your chest and curling into yourself. You are suffocating. I hear your choking breaths and rattling lungs. And I start wondering, why are you suffering silently? Why are you suffering at all? Are you that dangerous that he needs you to be weakened to the lowest form before killing you? Are you that threatening? My hand hovers over my wand as I watch you convulse.
And then you lunge.
Your hands are at my throat, squeezing with such force that I am not even allowed one breath. Your eyes are searing with fury. Your face is so revolting that I need to close my eyes to stop from seeing nightmares. You squeeze away with strength you should not have.
The moment I let out a soft mewl, your grip lessens. You falter. Your loss, I whisper as I swing my fist at your jaw, cracking it. You fall to the side, writhing in the agony that is causing your vision to fade. I unclench my fist, feeling the dull pain radiating through the bones. I cannot handle pain. I feel my neck, wincing as the lightest touch hurts me. You hurt me. You are weak, I say. If you weren't, I would be dead.
I am not sure why I don't feel shaken up after that ordeal. I suppose, in some ways, I had been expecting as much from you. I would have expected nothing less from you. You are gasping for breath once again, the potion latching onto the lobes of your lungs and sucking you dry. I crawl closer, watching you struggle against yourself. Need to breath? I ask.
Yes, you tell me.
I use my fingers to pinch you nose and cover your mouth. Try now, I tell you as I gaze into the wide eyes..
Yes!
There it is!
Fear.
You are quick to hide it but I see the sliver hiding behind your dilated pupil. You grapple at my wrists, scratching me and screaming behind my palm. I bear down on you with all my strength, digging the back of your head to the floor. Your legs kick unseen barriers. Your chest rises and falls unsuccessfully. Your eyes stay on me, slowly growing more and more placid. Your nails have stopped gouging me now, resting against my skin. Then your eyes fall shut. I let go of you. You breathe as would a drowning man on shore.
Your fingers slide down my wrists and entangle with mine. Holding my hands lightly, you turn towards me. Your forehead presses against my knee as you fall asleep. You bring our hands up and clutch them to your chest. Your frail heart beats furiously. Your shrunken lungs attempt to keep you strong. And in the corner of your eyes, where the fanned black lashes meet flushed skin, tears glisten.
I wrench my hands away, disgusted.
You pull your knees up and, in a mocking pose of a prayer, sleep on.
I try to feed you the next day. You cannot keep it down. Neither the meals nor the water. I leave you in tears once again. Tears of frustration and disbelief.
You continue to move into the realm of desolation. You almost never see me anymore. Even when you are looking at me, you never see me. And when I want you to see me, your eyes are closed in tired sleep. I need not chain you any longer. You cannot move. You are on your side all day and all night, staring not at the door but rather at the wall.
What do you think of me? I ask.
I think nothing of you, you say. I knew that so long ago. You have never thought anything of me. My thoughts pause when you turn around and look at me. Seeing me. You feel guilt, you murmur.
Guilt? Why?
I feel pity, I correct him.
For me? Or for you, you ask.
I don't answer. The pity I feel is neither for you nor for me. It is for him. I pity him for being the lowest form of animal. I pity him for wanting you to waste away before kicking you when getting back up is beyond your comprehension. I pity him for thinking that he is a stronger man than you.
I feel pity, I repeat.
Your eyes fall shut.
Our words, breaths, heartbeats, and lives run into each other. Some days you would eat away the hours. At other times, you wouldn't be able to talk because your throat was raw from bile and salt. Long moments passed when you would be trapped in your breathless and cramping body. There were short moments when you would watch me with hooded eyes.
I am not an imbecile. I know what he is doing. He is infecting me.
He is using the essence of a leech
guile of a snake
masquerade of a broken man
behind which hides cunning emerald irises.
No, I am not blind. I see through him with as much ease as he sees through me.
I've fallen in love with your eyes, Harry…
I watch as he presses his sole to your forehead, crushing you under his foot. You are wracked with torment, at the end of your sanity. You are on display for all of us to see. Your humiliation is our entertainment. Your muffled screams are music to our ears. Your tears are comedic and comical.
I laugh with the rest, watching you become less than a man. You have already soiled yourself. The scars along your lips have reopened as the potion is married with curses from numerous wands.
Do what you wish, he says as he waves a lazy hand at me.
Do what I wish? What do I wish?
I wish to hear you.
Crucio, I whisper.
Your scream pierces my skin. You scream for mercy. You scream out of fear. With your body arched into a perfect bow, your eyes are locked on mine. There is no opaque mask. You feel this pain because of me. Kill me, you plead voicelessly.
No, I tell you.
Please, you cry. Tears run up to your matted hair. Please.
No.
Your eyes fold shut. If you can't see me, then I can't see you. I break the spell. You fall against the table with a tired sigh. I have done it. I have broken you. I have made you fear me.
Avada Kedavra, he says. A flash of green thrusts into you.
No…
My heart stills.
But this means that… I will never see the sapphires again. Those fanned lashes will stay against the sallow cheeks. They will not open. They will not gaze up at me.
You have poisoned me…
I cannot breathe. I cannot think. And my heart? My heart dies as it sinks deep into my bowels. I fall out of reality and into darkness. You are dead. And now I am dead.
I fall to the floor with my eyes closed. What did yours look like? Yours looked like fear and mortification. I gouge the image out of my eyes. I hear myself choke on nothing. What did you sound like? You sounded like agony and defeat.
Pain. I cannot handle pain.
Death. Yes, I can die. Death I can take. Death I welcome.
I scramble to my feet and fly as fast as my crippled legs will carry me.
The glass shatters and rains around me as I jump. I fly among the water and wind, spiraling down. This flight is marvelous. Faster than any broom, as exhilarating as…
You.
You are beside me, racing for the Snitch. I glance to the side and see your profile. You are so beautiful. Your hand grabs the golden wings before I even make a move. And you turn to me with your startling green eyes smiling triumphantly. I won, you whisper as you press a kiss on my lips.
The ground whistles shrilly, inviting me in.
I slam into Death headfirst, your wonderful words in my ears and those spectacular eyes in my sight.
You win…