Characters belong to JK. Rowling, blah blah usual disclaimer.
She was a healer! Not some tough guy, kick ass auror. She wasn't like those who fought, who knew the curses, the defence. No, she was a healer. Spell damage ward, St. Mungos. The Order of the Phoenix provided no preparation in regards to capture to its healers. Hell, she wasn't even supposed to be a known member. They weren't supposed to want her, weren't supposed to catch her, beat her, torture her.
A shrill scream escaped her throat as she convulsed on the old stone pavers. She didn't know where she was, she didn't know why she was there, they were asking her something, perhaps about Lily and James, or was it Alice and Frank? She didn't know. It wouldn't matter; she didn't know where either couple was. She screamed again as the wand was drawn, but no curse followed.
And then she was alone. Dorcas didn't know how long she sat in the cell, trying to examine her newly acquired cuts and bruises. Glancing around, she noted the blood on the floor, the dirt and filth, the utter revolting setting she was in. She hadn't noticed earlier, but now, picking apart her surroundings was perhaps the only thing she could do to keep her mind of the searing pain that coursed through her body and mind. The dried blood on the floor around her however prevented the healer from exploring further. This was not where she was supposed to be.
What seemed like hours passed, and in reality, Dorcas would never know the exact time, the hours, minutes, seconds. She'd never know. All she knew was that she was being grabbed on the arm, dragged forward, ripped from her cell as she had been ripped from her apartment. She screamed, trying to fight. A girl her size however had no chance against men as tall and wide as the ones she struggled against. She though perhaps she recognised one as a boy she'd gone to school with, all those years ago. But she had to be mistaken; none of those people could ever be so heartless.
She was thrown to the floor, another stone floor, bricks or pavers, or filed rocks, she didn't know, or care. She whimpered, looking up into the aging face of the man that so few had seen. He was smirking, but could you expect any less from someone in his position? The all mighty Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who? No, the smirk wasn't what bothered her, well, it was, the whole situation bothered her! But for the main part it was the man next to the Dark Lord.
"Miss Meadowes, lovely of you to join us. I've been told you're being very uncooperative, that you've not answered the questions posed to you by young Mr. Malfoy. Where are the Potters?" His voice had been calm, reasonable to start, but the way he spat the words 'the Potters' made her flinch.
"I-I..." She stuttered, she couldn't speak, her heart was racing, tears were pouring what was she to say? She didn't know where they were, what could she answer?
"Speak up!"
A curse hit her from behind and a chorus of laughs surrounded her as she screamed in pain.
"I don't know where they are! I never knew!" Dorcas shouted causing the Dark Lord to frown down at her.
After a moment, glancing around at his servants he raised his wand.
"Very well. Avada Kedavra." A pause, "Wormtail, what was it you had to tell me?"
"I know where the Potters are."