Imogen curled herself into a ball in the corner, adjusting her battered body into the most comfortable position for her hands and shoulders. Her throat was raw all over again, and in addition to that fire, inescapable aches and pains spread over her shoulders and back, lacing down her arms and spiking in her hands. Vaguely she wondered why she kept fighting if it was futile; the Dark Lord man had her hostage in a house—a big house, with only one other person, the Bella lady, as far as she knew. He could do any number of torturous things to her, but she noticed that his intents didn't seem sexual, thankfully. They were just sadistic. Either way, she knew she was going to suffer and die, a fate that is not easy to resign to, but easier to grasp with the knowledge that one's family is nonexistent and there was no time for final goodbyes.
She had no way to keep track of time in that horrid, pitch-black, mildewy basement, only the steady feeling of cold stones behind her back and the small, terrifying sounds of other living things in the darkness so completely around her. Imogen let herself be swallowed by the overwhelming emotions surging through her body, picking carefully and oh-so-painfully through them, one agonizing bit at a time. Tears rolled down her cheeks until her eyes ran dry with dehydration. Her ears, dulled by the oppressive silence of the basement, picked up on the sounds of someone coming down the steps and throwing the door open, the bright light shocking and paining her eyes.
"It reeks like piss," a rough male voice spat. The silhouetted figure in the doorway turned towards her corner and marched towards her, grabbing her arm and hauling her upright. Her body moaned in protest, but she didn't fight, for fear she'd pass out from the pain. Imogen was led upstairs by the rough man and deposited in the middle of the same magnificent hall she'd seen before. The Dark Lord man was there, with his back to her, facing the flames in the fireplace. A quick glance behind her, around the rough man, proved that it was nighttime outside.
"Very well, Nott, leave." The Dark Lord man said dismissively. A thought occurred to Imogen that would've slipped out her mouth if her throat hadn't been so dry, her tongue so carpet-like. The Dark Lord man really ought to treat his people better, or they'll mutiny, Imogen thought. When Nott had left, the Dark Lord man waved his wand at the door and turned to face Imogen. She fought the recoil and to contain her surprise and disgust. The Dark Lord man had been more snakelike last time, but now he was a horrific parody of a man: his cheeks were tinged with yellow, the lump of his nose looked like dried clay stuck on his face, and his eyes were a muddled dark purple, with unequal pupils the shape of American footballs.
"Imogen," he said. Once again, Imogen fought the recoil but was unsuccessful. Her skin crawled at the sound of the Dark Lord man's voice, which was a raspy, breaking hybrid between its high, clear, cold and removed qualities and a richer tenor that was still flat and high, but more human. "How nice to see you again."
Imogen remained silent, taking all her willpower to meet the Dark Lord man's eyes, though she desperately wanted to look away, at something easier and less horrific than his twisted face.
"You know, it is common courtesy to return a greeting," the Dark Lord man said, as if he were speaking to a slow child, though his voice broke on "common courtesy". "Greet me." He waved his wand in Imogen's direction, and her throat muscles started working of their own volition. It was the most alien, unpleasant experience Imogen had ever lived through, causing her to dry heave and retch, though she'd long since thrown up any food and failed to replace it. "Greet me." The Dark Lord man repeated, with a different flick of his wand. Imogen felt moisture seep into her throat and mouth. She swallowed several times, grimacing at the pain the action brought, but relishing the feeling of water in her mouth.
"I hate you," she choked out with difficulty.
"What a flat thing to say . . . as if I haven't heard that sentiment before. You'll have to be more creative if you want to get anywhere, Imogen." The Dark Lord man said, taunting and insulting and patronizing her all in the same sentence. Imogen felt her temper flare, but she didn't have the energy for sustained anger; it had been drained by the depression still swirling within her like a black hole.
"Why can't you look me in the eye?" she countered, grimacing at a swallow and recalling how the Dark Lord man had been unable to meet her eyes and answer her three-letter question the last time, what seemed like years ago.
The Dark Lord man hid his nanosecond of surprise well, though Imogen could tell he wasn't used to being surprised and didn't like the feeling. "Now what sort of a greeting is that? I believe you Muggles say good day, yes?" He smiled—another sickening sight, a friendly gesture perverted. Imogen also hated how he was patronizing Muggles—whoever they were, but racism didn't sit well with her.
"You can bloody well leave the Muggles alone, Mr Dark Lord." Imogen said defiantly. The Dark Lord man chuckled, causing Imogen to immediately rethink the brazen words that had just departed her lips.
"And why would I want to do such a thing, when you yourself are a Muggle, and I have no intentions of leaving you alone?" The Dark Lord man asked, stepping closer to Imogen. She stood her ground, though every female instinct in her body was screaming at her to run, run, bloody run! This was a bad situation for a girl, most definitely. She squared her jaw and braced herself for any one of the nightmarish situations she'd planned for in the basement. However, the Dark Lord man merely laughed again and took a few steps away from her. Some of the tension drained from her body.
"You are definitely most amusing . . . tell me, Imogen, why do you fear me?" He tilted his head at her, betraying the calculating intelligence that lay behind that tainted face.
"Because you killed my family. Because you've ruined my life, and I know I'm not going to get out of here with my life and my virginity both intact. Because I know that you're a twisted person." Imogen said, willing her voice not to betray her fear.
"Your virginity? You honestly believe I would rape you? No, no, if I desired that, I would've had Nott do that. Oh, no . . . I prefer mind games, you see," the Dark Lord man hissed, taking another step towards Imogen and watching her with amusement as she swayed backwards, away from him, though her feet stayed obstinately rooted. "How old are you, girl?"
"My mother told me never to tell strange men things like that." Imogen recited.
"No? Well, you've already told me your name, and your mother is dead, girl. What is your age?" the Dark Lord man repeated, taking another threatening step towards her. Imogen felt her balance slipping as she attempted to lean farther away from him, yet not admit defeat by stepping backwards. To recover her balance, she took a step forward; an aggressive advance.
"I'm fifteen." She spat as she planted her feet again, in her new antagonistic position. The Dark Lord man didn't waver from his stance. Wizard and Muggle alike recognized how this was very much a posturing and conceptions game they played, two belligerent, dominant characters under each other's skin; a recipe for disaster. The Dark Lord man's eyes widened and face contorted in a parody of a smile as he increased the tension by taking another step forward, until he was two feet away from Imogen.
He could see that every fibre of her being was tense, poised to run, filled with fear and adrenaline. It was heady to see this kind of terror inspired in a human being, this primordial state of instinct aroused in such an evolved species. The Dark Lord controlled the situation. Stepping backwards would decrease the tension, while stepping forwards would wind her tighter until she snapped and backed down. She was his yo-yo, his intriguing, satisfying play toy that he could do with what he pleased, a toy matching his calibre for once.
Slowly and agonizingly, the Dark Lord took one step forward, until a gap of ten inches separated the two. The Dark Lord's superior height meant that he loomed over the Muggle girl, and he could feel the tension and fear and anger rolling off her body in waves. She kept his eye contact, but saw how her fists were shaking, nails digging into soft palms; this was physically difficult for her.
Lips curling in a smile, the Dark Lord placed his feet another four inches closer to the girl. She was leaning so far back, he believed she would fall over at any moment, but her feet must've been Permanently Stuck to the floor, for she didn't budge a hair. Oh, was she good. Teasingly, the Dark Lord turned his back and paced ten feet away before turning to meet her gaze again. He crossed the distance gradually, watching the tension build in Imogen's frame.
Finally, he reached the point of six inches of separation. Imogen was trembling with exhaustion and extreme exertion, the tendons on her neck stood out, her jaw was clenched, arms stiff, fists shaking, whole body stressed to the marrow. The Dark Lord closed the six inch gap. Imogen fell backwards, putting her hands out to stop her fall. There was a small crack and pain flashed across her sweat-shining face and she cradled her broken left hand in surprise. The Dark Lord looked impassively down on her as she bit her lip to keep from crying with the pain, noticing that her feet were still toe-to-toe with his own. She'd held up astonishingly well.
The Dark Lord tilted his head at her, a mild gesture not indicative of the degree of the turmoil inside his head: the new part of his mind wanted to help and comfort her, the old part of his mind didn't want to do anything but to leave her be and watch her pain and suffering, and maybe Crucio her for good luck. Unfortunately for the Dark Lord, the new part of his mind was stronger and the fight was much more difficult. He crossed his arms behind his back and gripped just above his elbows to keep from showing the shaking hands that would give up the severity of his internal conflict.
Exerting a great deal of willpower, the Dark Lord turned away from Imogen and left her on the floor, hearing the soft sobs of anguish escaping her mouth. Lazily, uncaringly, haphazardly, almost, the Dark Lord aimed his wand over his shoulder and healed Imogen's wrist, though the languid quality of the unexpected action expertly masked the ferocity of the new part of his mind advocating healing Imogen. He heard a great racking sigh of relief issue from the Muggle behind him and felt the satisfaction of the new part of his mind mixing with the displeasure of the old part of his mind. Since when did he heal the injuries of his victims? It was like the lion trapping the gazelle and batting it around, then setting and fixing the gazelle's broken leg from the lion's advances. Unnatural. Against nature; against his nature.
But that was Imogen's effect. She was the gazelle that could inexplicably receive a four-course banquet from any lion that trapped her. Nature demanded that such a gazelle be eliminated, but nature also demanded that such a gazelle survive. What would nature's final verdict on this gazelle be? Would the gazelle escape by the skin of its teeth to charm and luck its way out of encounters again, or would the lion's maw end its life?
The Dark Lord watched the snapping, dancing, flickering flames silhouetting his snake while his mind chewed on the idea, Imogen in the background pondering the same thought. They stayed silent and pensive for a long time, until the Dark Lord finally reached a verdict. He whirled on Imogen, screaming, "Crucio!"
Imogen's raw shrieks of unfiltered agony echoed hauntingly throughout the hall, reverberating and creating a tortured chorus; hell's symphony. The Dark Lord smiled as he stepped closer, jerking Imogen from side to side, keeping the Cruciatus Curse on her. It gave him immense pleasure to destroy her, to break that cool, collected outside, to shatter the body and mind of a person he'd come to view as his equal. There are no equals to the Dark Lord; he destroys them. Finally, the Dark Lord pulled the curse off the Muggle girl, leaving her panting and shaking and crying in relief and the aftershocks of the torture. She pulled herself into a sitting position and pitifully dragged herself into a corner to feel safer as she continued to weep. It infuriated the Dark Lord. How dare she display such weakness! It must be destroyed! No weakness.
"Crucio!" Voldemort cried again, but the curse missed and hit the wall just beside Imogen's head, as she'd jerked to avoid it. Her eyes were wide with the realization of what she'd just avoided. She hauled herself into a standing position, knees knocking, bloodied hands clutching at the walls, eyes fixed on the Dark Lord, trying to anticipate his next move. His eyes lit up with the challenge she now presented, and he laughed as he shot the Cruciatus at her again. She moved slightly to the side and inched her way along the wall, relying on her hands to hold her up.
From across the room, the Dark Lord could feel the exhilarating sense of her fear—her racing heartbeat, audible to him, her wide eyes, her ragged panting breath, the squeal of her slick-with-blood hands sliding on the wall each time she repositioned them, the stumble of careless, tired, tortured feet on the polished hall floor of Malfoy Manor. He laughed maniacally, sending several rapid jets of spells towards her, a medley of the Cruciatus and Killing curses, with various unpleasant and immoral hexes mixed in.
Sobs and tears echoed now as Imogen realized what high stakes she was playing for, and what the price was if she failed to perform impeccably. The Dark Lord was having the time of his life wreaking the psychological torment upon Imogen, slashing spells up out of the air, cutting spells like broad swings of a blade, streaking spells like comets, jabbing and poking spells like the staccato rain on the roof. The Dark Lord finally stopped the onslaught, laughing, when Imogen collapsed, chest heaving, unconscious. He summoned Nott, pointing to the girl's body. "Do with her what you will, just be sure to return her to the cellar." He instructed rather dismissively, though the elation lent a jaunty note to this cracked, Frankenstein's-monster-esque voice. Nott looked delighted and collected the girl's body, carrying her haphazardly to the basement steps and stumbling down into the darkness.
Feeling more alive than he had in days, the Dark Lord walked to the window and looked out at the rain, glittering as it fell past the light streaming from the window. The world outside was abandoned to seek refuge from nature. The Dark Lord flicked his fingers and watched unblinkingly as the glass in the window shattered, glittering and flashing with the falling rain. He drew a deep breath of the cold, clean air, hissing in satisfaction. He felt Nagini winding around his feet, but stepped out of her embrace, streaking into the night sky.
Civilization and nature flew by beneath him, emptiness of the night sky above him, the air around him, in him, through him, whipping away all his thoughts and confusion and anger, scrubbing him clean of emotion except for joy. When he turned and twisted in midair, the land revolved around him, the sky twisting about him, reality centered on him, warping of his volition, as it should be.
He challenged nature when all else fled and hid from it, he flaunted his fearlessness in the face of nature. He recognized that if anyone were to treat him as he treated nature, he would kill them torturously for claiming superiority, and wondered if nature would do the same. Deciding that nature could not possibly do anything to harm him as he would harm an inferior man, the Dark Lord vanished into the darkness of the night, completely at home.
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