Please be aware that there is passage below that could be considered gruesome to some readers. Please read at your own risk, this is your second warning.
Thank you again to SLYNNR for your review. No judgement here BTW - stick it to your teacher. You are your own person. :-)
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Harry was sitting at his dining room table in the basement kitchen, illuminated by the artificial windows Hermione had charmed after the war. He was staring at the marks and dents in the lightly stained hardwood top. The Daily Prophet spread out in his peripheral. Every once in a while, it would hit him again that he owned this house. A house full of stories that only until recently, he wasn't a part of. It wasn't the easiest to swallow knowing how he got it. Throughout school, his biggest priority was staying alive. He never really thought about what he would be doing when it was all over. He knew he wanted to be an Auror, without a doubt in his mind. But everything else? He scoffed to himself. Very little thought at all as to where he would end up. He had been lucky that Sirius' will was clear cut, Harry got everything except the Lord Black title. Granted, he would give it all back if that meant bringing Sirius back, Remus for that matter as well, but where he was going to be living was one less mountain to climb. He would like to think that even if Sirius was alive, he would still live at 12 Grimmauld. But Sirius wasn't, and Harry had no time to become maudlin, not with everything going on.
Bringing his attention from the individually unique blemishes back to the paper in front of him, he read the article for the third time. He knew it by heart of course. And frankly the information wasn't all that significant. But it was a reminder of what was going on. It gave him time to mull over the events that have occurred over the last week. Throughout the investigation surrounding Ron and Justin Finch-Fletchley, he still had a hard time accepting that this is what became of his first friend. He knew Ron wasn't the best of students, but he had a passion for becoming an Auror. He had a drive to do greater things than his siblings. Part of Harry felt that Ron had gotten wrapped up in the "Golden Trio" rubbish. He was finally a "hero" and enjoyed the fame and notoriety that came with it.
Unfortunately, the investigation of his former classmates and colleagues was not the only investigations that the DMLE and his task force had on their plates. It seemed that the issue with Ron caused other cases that were considered minor or a one off, to be looked at more closely. Frankly, other than the normal drunk in publics, disorderly behavior, or Azkaban escort calls, every other case that had been opened in the last year and a half was being re-evaluated.
Harry's team was to primarily focus on any case involving his parolees. His task force was on the small side, employing only 35 people. Ten specially trained Aurors on each of the 3 shifts with five full time support positions. Their primary mission was to oversee and monitor all parolees that were released after their trial, or their Azkaban sentencing. With the majority of the parolees being recent Hogwarts alumni, that were not branded, but had evidence of support to Tom Riddle's schemes or they were branded and was able to provide solid evidence that they were coerced and blackmailed into joining and completing assigned tasks. Malfoy was one of those in the last group. It helped that both he and Hermione spoke on his behalf during the trial. As reluctant as Harry was to admit it, he was pretty close to Malfoy when he threw an Avada, Sectumsempra, and a Bombarda at three Death Eaters engaged with Neville and Luna. The last one was right in the throat. Harry was both disgusted and amused at the outcome.
In addition to his parolees, they had been asked to assist in looking into any case that was a known acquaintance of a Death Eater, whether that be friend, coworker, or family member. The unsettling part of this group of cases was that most of the affected individuals had no remaining family. No one to notice their absences, new odd behaviors, or strange injuries. Harry couldn't help but rub his face in exasperation.
It didn't help him any that the silence in Grimmauld Place was deafening. Add in the creepy crevasses, unexplained noises, and dark memories this place held, and Harry wondered if it was time to stop punishing himself for all of his regrets and strip this place bare. He was tempted to gut it and start over. It's not like he didn't have the money. Especially the money that came along with this house. Normally, Harry would revel in the silence and calming therapy of manually cleaning, but even for him, with a busy schedule, the 8 bedroom home was daunting. It also didn't help that almost everything in this decaying mass of building materials, was decades old. Thinking again to the nicks and marks marring the wood from years of use, the only reason why they were visible being that the magic covering it disappeared with Kreacher's death. Truly, Harry was fine with that. Kreacher's death, that is. The elf was exhausting, even when he was being helpful. Having to clean the rooms with the manual labor ingrained in him, allowed for him to be distracted, or in some cases, allowed him to think something through. Ginny didn't like that he didn't replace the elf, even knowing Hermione's stance on their enslavement. He knew that she had gotten used to the elf doing the mundane chores she had to do at the elbow of Molly Weasley, but he hadn't seen a good enough reason to bring another one into the house.
Speaking of Ginny, she didn't take the news of Ron's unemployment kindly, especially since it was her boyfriend that was there for the actual firing. In fact, Molly had sent a howler to him saying he couldn't return to the Burrow until he apologized to each and every one of them for firing Ron. Seeing as that wasn't going to happen, it was the final nail in the coffin with Ginny. He also understood that he probably should have told her sooner, and that in her shoes, she shouldn't have found out it had even happened because of Molly's chastising missive. She had tried to say that he was betraying her for Hermione, that there was something going on between them. For fame; that he was trying to get Ron's spotlight back on himself. She tried to guilt him in every way. She even stooped so low as to accuse him of acting out of spite that Ron had a family and he didn't. After that punch to the gut, it wasn't hard to hold fast to his morals and refused to try to get Ron his job back. So, she packed her stuff. Now he had this huge, old, decrepit house with memories of her souring the good ones, and no one to share the silence with.
'Enough moping,' He thought to himself. "Might as well go to work early."
Harry closed the paper back into its original form, setting it back down on the massive, aged table, before making his way upstairs to start his day. His hope being that there will be some clues brought forward to help solve any of his cases.
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"Wakey! Wakey Arsehole!"
This shout barely passing through his conscious. Slowly coming to, he became more aware of himself and his surroundings. He was still tied up, arms above his head, shoulder joints having long given up supporting his diminishing weight. He had no idea how long he had been passed out this time. Tentatively moving his head from its bowed down position, the kink in his neck suggested quite a while. Careful not to irritate his raw wrists, he rolled his neck in the narrow space between his suspended arms, the pain only barely registered. Over the course of what he could only imagine being months, he had learned that the pain could always be worse. Regardless of how they wished to dole it out, tied up like the muggle savior Christ, or helpless on the floor. He seemed to be in a perpetual state of pain.
He did recognize that he was wet. The ice cold water making trails down his exposed torso. He knew how he was woken up. It was how he was woken up each time his captors wished to have fun at his expense. He also knew what was coming next. As if asking for it, he felt the telltale splash only milliseconds before the burning started. This was worse than normal. Normally too weak to thrash, the remaining strength he had appeared as his muscles clenched, jerking his body. The ropes that were keeping him taut in place rubbed the tender, almost non-existent skin around his wrists. His jaw opened wide and he was screaming but no sound came out. It never came out anymore.
Even the voice in his thoughts seemed foreign. He knew that it wasn't the canvas bag over his head that was muffling any sound he tried to force out. No, whoever brought him to his prison placed an odd silencing charm on him. He knew it was different as soon as the caster finished the incantation. Instead of simply muting him, he felt the magic entwine with his mouth and gave the feeling of washing down his throat and surrounding his vocal cords. It had burned like a phoenix on burning day - quick, intense, and all encompassing. He knew that what ever had been done had done damage. Breathing hurt, even when he was lucky enough to get water, his throat was in excruciating pain.
As he felt himself gasp for air, he bore down on his teeth as hard as possible. The pain in his throat was nothing compared to the burning on his skin. This was oil. The slick tracks left a footprint of fire. It wasn't like the boiling water used so many times before. No, this seemed to stay close where it had splashed. Scalding his already abused skin. He could feel blisters forming all over his neck and torso. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't hot enough to instantly numb. So it didn't take very long for his world to become black once more.
It didn't last for long. Soon enough, he was being doused in freezing cold ice water. The difference in temperature from the still hot oil to the freezing water, was equally as painful, taking his breathe away.
"Oh no you don't, wanker." A fist smashed into the bridge of his nose. He heard the audible crack. It had happened so many times before, he was sure he had very little feeling left in his nose. What hurt was his eyes. Fisting his broken hands, he tried desperately to transfer the pain in his eyes to his extremities. The pain that lingered in his twisted and missing fingers was nothing in comparison. Regardless of how many times his captors punched him in the face, his eyes hurt like hell every - damn - time. He could taste the metallic tones of his blood pooling in his mouth.
"Guess what, you Death Eater scum?" Draco had become accustomed to rants from this particular voice. Of the three that "visited" him, this one was the most chatty, the voice was low, gravelly and full of disdain. Draco knew that the voices were distorted. He had tried to recognize them and couldn't. And this tormentor, man, could he pack a punch. "Guess who they finally realized is missing? You, you worthless piece of shit. It only took 8 months."
'8 months?' He repeated in his head.
A sadistic laugh and the "thuwack" of a spring loaded knife opening, cut the silence. Bracing himself for the onslaught of pain from skin being sliced open, he winced when the first incision was not in the scarring on his back but in a new spot, in the middle of his chest.
"Well if we are going to return you, let's make this time count, ya?" He stated mockingly as he pressed the knife to Draco's alabaster skin once more.
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Day 8 ya'll of self-imposed quarantine. I have been working third shift in order to spend more time with my daughter during the day. I hope you are all holding up ok. I need to keep my creative juices flowing so it you want to suggest a prompt for a one shot, send it over. I really hope everyone is staying safe and doing well!!
Always,
Clara
