indigo
[first person; pov of a death eater; experimental fic]
I have to give it to this Potter boy; that's some heart he's got. Some soul. He's as bloody stubborn as that heinous mop of hair.
Tied down to a chair and reduced to a blubbering map of bruise-purple isles, beaten up in all the ways all existing worlds can come up with, and he still can find it in himself to look me in the eye and smirk.
Where's that coming from? Where the hell is he getting that? Is the thought of her still somehow not dead in his head?
But how could it? After that much time under the Cruciatus?
No matter. All the time in the world. He's going to break. Or die. Or both.
My wand digs deep into his chest. He winces, once, twice, tries to move away by instinct. And then he's still. His tied hands clutch at the narrow, jagged ends of the armchair, cut-adorned wrists straining against his bonds. I wonder how the hell can he still move like this; his arms are in shambles. Nasty bloody cut on the right, fracture on the left. He wouldn't move if he could help it, I can tell. But I doubt he can now, not when only half an inch more and my wand is going to pierce through his torn shirt and mangled skin. Not when the end of my wand will graze his heart, should I carry on; soft and raw and beating, that one second of contact setting every single obstinate vein of his on fire. The slow, arduous struggle of a blunt wand surely is bound to hurt more than the quick slice of a dagger? It's evident in his face. Glasses askew, sweat-glossed forehead, broken jaw. Sunken lines abundant as he strains every muscle, every patch of skin, to resist. But he crumples. Of course he does. Everything about him submits to the pain, to me, everything about him save his will. Every time he opens that mouth my anticipation rises for the inevitable begging, the cries of no, please, stop—anytime now; he will indulge me, surely—but it doesn't come. He's all raw screams that leave deep, scarring scratches in his throat and an incessant ringing in my ears.
"I will kill you."
No response. James Potter, frozen and resigned, broken beyond repair at long last.
"But don't worry, it won't take long for your mudblood toy to follow suit."
He moves.
Breathes; fast, shallow, shuddering even in the short second his lungs allow him to exhale. His lips quiver, but it's hard to see beneath all those cuts. Teeth gritted, jaw locked, fists tight. A thin river of red chases the grime and reaches his chin, drops on his chest—one, two, three—just a breath short of my wand. His pale, taut knuckles are white, curiously fetching, against the flickering meager light. He raises his head. I imagine the words are difficult to come by now, what with his head crushed by neverending waves of pain and his throat boasting an intricate pattern of gashes, but I don't have to look long to recognize defiance beneath those cracked spectacles.
He's still here. And she's still with him.
Very well.
I drive the wand deeper. His sternum cracks, and his gasp is sharp, loud against the dark hollow room. I twist the goddamn thing and he screams like the madman I want him to be.
"Crucio."