She was screaming.
It wasn't poetic, like a damsel in distress.
One would think a woman's scream is beautiful in a cold way. Cruel, yes. Tragic, yes. The way it echoes off the ground, sparks in the air, reverberates off the wall... Beautiful. And horrific. So many long to hear it, search for it with the steady dripping of fresh blood...
His cousin was one of them. And it sickened him. Killed him inside as he killed on the outside.
He could do nothing.
Never.
And he wanted to save her.
She wanted nothing more than to kill him.
Not just him, nothing that dramatic.
She wanted to escape.
He wanted to help her.
And he hated himself for it.
She was friends with his brother.
A member of the Order of the Phoenix.
He was a death eater. A slave.
And he regretted it.
The first time he saw her was at school.
Born enemies, they never spoke.
The first time he heard her was when she screamed.
He was the torturer.
"Crucio," he said blandly. He felt the energy run through his body and shuddered. In only seconds, it hit the woman before him.
She tensed and writhed, her body doing a grotesque dance on the floor of the cellar. Her teeth were pressing into her lip, drawing blood as her hands scratched at her skin. They drew blood, leaving long streaks across her bruised skin.
When they brought her, her skin had been dirty, but he saw the pale color of it.
Now it was so dark and bloody...
Her hair had been tussled but blonde and long. Now, while it still cascaded over her face, it was limp and dirty.
She was tragic. She was terrible.
Chayele Stricken was stunning.
"Crucio," he said again. This time she screamed. Loudly. It assaulted his eardrums, making him wish to cover his ears.
That was the last thing he could do with all of the other death eaters in there with him.
Stricken writhed on the ground, her body smacking against the wall of the cell. Her head cracked off of it sickeningly. Regulus winced, even though he tried to hide it. Luckily, the other death eaters hadn't noticed. They were too dumb to notice anything. He could see Wilkes standing beside him, eyes gleaming with glee as the girl – Stricken – thrashed.
Once again, he raised his wand, almost mechanically, detached from his conflicting emotions.
"Crucio," he said. The power once again flew through him, but it was weaker, more pathetic than before. The spell sizzled out weakly, and Stricken hardly flinched when it struck her.
"Come on, Black," Rabastan Lestrange hooted. "You can do better than that!" Wilkes scoffed.
"Black? I'm surprised he's got this far. He's weak as his brother. C'mon, let me have a turn with the girl. I'll give her a night she'll never forget!" Wilkes said, smiling maliciously. Rabastan let out a loud laugh. Regulus opened his mouth to protest; Wilkes was terrible. He'd make it so much worse for her.
Before he could, as the most senior death eater present, Rodulphous Lestrange made a decision.
"Let's give Wilkes a shot. Black's too weak; can you see him shaking? Don't kill the whore, Wilkes. There'll be hell to pay if you do."
He was right. Regulus could feel himself shaking, but he wasn't tired. He was furious, and adrenaline pumped through him.
The other death eaters exited the room, most muttering unhappily. They had liked watching the torture.
He wanted nothing more than to help this girl.
But he hardly knew her.
There was no point. This was no tale to tell young children about a hero and a villain. If he helped her, then he – and Stricken, too, after they destroyed what was still left of her mind – would be killed.
It would be slow and painful.
A more dramatic person would say that nothing could be worse than what they had now. And he supposed it was true to an extent.
He was a death eater. Cold, cruel. It wasn't the life for him. Merlin, he knew that now. He hadn't before.
But he'd be lying if he said that his life was horrible. He was fighting for what he believed in. Muggles were nothing; they were worthless. This bitch – Stricken – was a muggle-lover. She wanted to help them, and, for all of that shit, she deserved what she was getting.
Sure, he was killing, and he didn't like that. However, they were in a war. A war. There was no way to fight without casualties, as his brother had found out.
He could remember when Stricken was captured (Merlin was that really only yesterday?) She had been knocked unconscious in a fight on Diagon Alley. As a known member of the Order of the Phoenix, she had been grabbed quickly by Wilkes. Sirius had seen her being apparated away.
Regulus could still remember the horror struck look on his face when he saw. It served him right; that's what he gets for fighting for the wrong side.
That's what he deserved for leaving Regulus.
A loud scream interrupted Regulus's thoughts. He whipped around to stare at the heavy, wooden door. The sound had to be loud to be coming through there.
Suddenly, he wondered. Was Stricken crying in pain and helplessness yet? All of them did with Wilkes. If there was a gram of defiance still in her, then it would be squashed into nothing. Wilkes could make them cry out so easily.
It was disgusting, and it only refueled his desire to help her.
He couldn't though.
Why would he help her? It would cost him his own life. He had to just ignore her.
That's what he'd do. He'd just avoid her in any way possible. It wouldn't be long, especially if Wilkes kept up his daily visits. Soon, she'd be broken and dead.
And then, Regulus thought with relish, all of these traitorous thoughts will be dead alongside of her.
1231231231232131231231231231 2312312312312312312312312312 312312312312312312312312
Hi, everyone. I know I shouldn't be starting something new, but I joined a challenge to get me more interested in my fics again. It won't distract me from my other fics, I promise!
Please read and review. This is my first ever attempt at romance (or a story that will possibly have a happy ending.)
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry Potter.