The room was cold, and gooseflesh broke over her despite the robes she still wore. They were in an empty classroom in the dungeons. Tom had locked and warded it himself to ensure no one would stumble on them. The five Knights all stood at pseudo attention behind their leader, and Elena was standing on her own before them all.
"Gentlemen," he said, "You all know our dear Elena as a classmate, as a study partner, and as— much as she may disagree— mine. Tonight, we officially welcome her into our inner circle." Some of the young men nodded; Nott was staring at her with something akin to worry. "Of course, she must first learn to address her Lord and Master appropriately."
Elena took a step back. It put her further from the door, but she knew she couldn't leave anyway.
"I have been handling you delicately, Elena, doll. But perhaps you desire a firmer grip, so tonight the gloves come off." Tom's voice was cold, soft.
"Tom," she began, "I—"
"Do not," he said, the hissed words cutting through her own, "mistake my past leniency for affection. I've tried to make it clear that I do not have a sentimental nature."
Staring at the hard angles of his face, she realized then just how foolish she'd been. Elena was certain Tom had tortured her mother's husband. The man had been half terrified of the schoolboy when they left. She knew he'd murdered, knew his hands were far from clean, had once been at the end of his wand herself. Somehow, she'd let her temper get the best of her. He hadn't harmed her in so long, she'd thought she was safe. That was a mistake.
Elena locked eyes with Nott, whom she knew well enough to call a friend, and whom she knew felt the same for her, pleading. Tom noticed, of course.
"You think he'll save you?" His laugh was that creepy high sound she suspected was the genuine article. "He won't. None of my Knights will keep you from me. Not even after you've wed one of them. As they are mine, you are also." Before she could even think to respond, he gestured Nott forward. "Perhaps that should be your next lesson. Theodorus, whom do you serve?"
"You, my lord," Nott said immediately.
"And you will do as I say?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Even if it means hurting someone you like?"
Elena might have imagined the slightest hesitation before he said again, "Yes, my lord."
Tom's smile frightened her. "The Cruciatus, if you will," he told the other man, gesturing toward Elena.
"What, Tom, please—" Elena called out, then collapsed to the stone floor as Nott said the incantation. It was pain like she'd never felt before, like someone had taken every bruise, every fall, every slap, every little hurt she'd ever experienced and put it into these few seconds. She was quite sure she could hear herself screaming, feel her limbs flailing, but the burning, twisting, electrifying, cold, hot pain seared her, poisoned her, would kill her—
It ended as abruptly as it had started, and she pulled her knees to her chest as though she could protect herself, staring at the men before her.
"Very good, Theodorus." Nott recognized the dismissal and stepped back. "It's all right, doll. Nott needs his practice, and I assure you my own Cruciatus is far worse."
Her eyes were streaming tears, but her body was still shaking with aftershocks and she couldn't find it in her to care about crying in front of them. "Please, Tom, I'm sorry," she begged.
"More?" He sounded surprised, but beckoned Avery forward. "Who am I to deny you. Alfred, go on then."
He hesitated a brief second, and hope bloomed inside her until the red curse struck her once more and she was lost to the pain. It was excruciating, bending her limbs, frying her mind, burning along her insides both hot and freezing cold. Her muscles contracted violently, as though her organs were being pierced over and over and over—
Rosier was called forth quickly enough that hardly had Avery's Cruciatus finished before his began.
She remained sobbing on the floor, screaming once more before realizing the curse had finally lifted. Elena scrambled forward, "Tom, please, please," she sobbed.
He shook his head, disappointed. "Lestrange."
"My lord." The usually brooding young man looked elated, gazing at the crying girl on the floor.
"Rad enjoys torture, don't you, Rad?"
"Yes, my lord," he eagerly agreed.
Tom knelt to Elena's level. "He wants you to himself, you know," he divulged. "He often takes my cast away toys, and sometimes even I'm astonished by his sadism." He stroked her cheek, then stood and gestured to his Knight.
If the others had been pain, this was something else. This was Hell, inferno. This was a lake of fire. Her blood had been replaced with acid and it burned through her. It was consuming, devouring agony. Nothing else existed, and it was everywhere and everything, and she was going to die like this, going to burst from this anguish so exquisite that it was shattering her into pieces and—
Elena lay there, her body trembling, her voice wheezing. She thought she heard a sound of discontent as Lestrange was told to step back. She turned her head and looked over at the line of men, tears leaking silently from her eyes. Lestrange gazed hungrily back, tongue skirting out to lick his upper lip. She trembled against the fabric of her robe, which now pooled around her on the floor.
"Dolohov."
She blinked and the sound clicked something inside her. "Please," she whispered. "Please, no more. I'm so sorry. I'll be good."
Tom nodded sympathetically, his dark eyes kind. "I'm sure, sweetheart, but Antonin hasn't had his turn. We have to be fair, don't we?"
She sobbed brokenly as the Cruciatus was cast again and she was thrown back into Hell.
It was a single-minded pain, a pain that burned and burned and burned. It ate her, its teeth fire and its saliva molten, tearing into her, swallowing her very soul, and she was sure now, sure that it couldn't last, that she'd die, but maybe she'd already died. She couldn't think past the pain, the torture, the agony that was all-encompassing. There had been nothing before, and now she was in Hell and there would never be anything other than this ever again. She was pain and she was dead and she just screamed and let the pain become her.
"That was impressive, Antonin. Was that your first time casting the curse?"
"Yes, my lord," came the cultured response.
"You have a gift. I think that may even match my own Cruciatus."
"Thank you, my lord."
There was no sound for a moment, and Elena laid there with her cheek pressed to the cool floor, trying to breathe, trying to remember who she was, trying to become a living thing again. Cloth rustled near her ear, then something was stroking down her aching, torn throat.
"Have you learned your lesson, doll?"
She nodded, reality slowly coming back together around her. She would say anything, do anything not to feel that Hell again.
"You'll have to say the words," came that beautiful, terrible voice.
Elena batted her eyes open, the world tipping and blurring and slowly coming back into focus, bringing into view Tom's angelic face. The words, he'd said. She had to say the words. She swallowed, her mouth dry, licking her lips as though her tongue weren't almost useless now. Her brows twinged together, then her whole body spasmed in memory of the pain. There were words she was supposed to say, he was waiting on her, and he wouldn't be patient for long.
At last, they came to her and she took a breath, breathing out, "Yes, my lord," with it.
Tom gazed down at her, his thumb stroking the notch of her throat. "To whom do you belong?"
"You, my lord."
He beamed. "Good girl."
The world blurred again, warmly somehow. Tears soon flooded her face, but she kept still to minimize the aftereffects of the curse.
"Oh, sweetheart, it's alright." He pulled her up and she realized he had conjured a chair. Tom sat in it, rubbing circles on her back as he positioned her across his lap. "You're alright now. I told you, I take care of what's mine." He tipped back her head, and then she felt a brush of something soft against her lips. "Be a good girl, and you'll never have to feel that again," he said, the hand on her back tugging a few of her curls down to twirl in his fingers.
She nodded, briefly wondering at the steady heartbeat she could hear where her ear lay against his chest.
"You'll be good, won't you?"
"Yes, my lord," she ground out, so quietly it wasn't even a whisper.
She could feel the pleasure he took in that statement, and thought she should be screaming, should be pulling herself away from him, disgusted. Instead, she sat there just like a toy, a doll he'd plucked from the ground and held in his arms.
That's exactly what she was to him.
She stayed there, curled up against him as he stroked his hands soothingly over her back, over her stockinged legs, over her hair. He plied her with a few more soft kisses, though she didn't have energy or mind to respond. A very distant part of her wondered if he would take things further, but he didn't. She knew she should have been terrified by the thought, but she curiously felt nothing now. Just hollow aching.
Once he had sufficiently comforted her, he wiped the tear tracks from her face and stood with her, gently lowering her to her feet, though he had a supporting arm around her waist. Elena noted that they were alone. She had no idea when the others had left.
"Let's get you to bed, sweetheart. I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning." Tom had her bag; someone had taken his apparently. He guided her out of the dungeons, up the stairs, through the Ravenclaw common room, though it all was hazy and faraway.
When they'd reached the stairs to her dormitory, he tilted her face to him again, scanning it. "I expect you at breakfast in the morning." At her nod, he smiled, planted one last chaste kiss on her lips, and sent her up to bed.
Elena spent most of her night staring up at the navy cloth over her bed, tracing over the folds of it as her body trembled with reverberations from the Cruciatus. Eventually, she dozed off, and dreamt of a world of red light and high, cruel laughter.