NB: Content warning for abuse.

10th September 21:01

Voldemort approached the man kneeling on the green and silver rug, his breathing fast, excited. He held the holly wand in his hand and approached him.

"Show me, Rookwood. I want to see it."

His servant obliged, looking up and opening his mind. A willing mind was so easy to explore, to fall into and see the memory in all its vibrancy.

He could see the cell. A dingy, grey cube with a pathetic excuse of a window high in the back wall, a fallacy of sunlight illuminating the space.

A strangled scream ripped through the room. It came from the back of the room where a boy was twisting around as if in great physical pain. His legs shuffled around desperately, seeking an exit and finding none. His arms thrashed, chains banging against the wall he was shackled to.

Rookwood lifted the curse. This time he had kept him under for much longer, a test to see how long it would take for him to lose control and scream. The other times, the boy had made little noise, just moaning into his leather muzzle, clearly putting effort into holding back his cries. Rookwood felt mildly impressed by the tolerance, but he was only giving him short doses of pain, not wanting to cause too much damage.

He lasted a full minute before he lost control and screamed. Rookwood released the curse. Immediately the boy sagged against his chains, legs suddenly giving out under him and his entire weight went on those thin wrists. He swung a little, head dipping as he lost consciousness.

Rookwood neared, putting his hand under the boy's right armpit and pushing him back up so he didn't end up dislocating something. The boy's body complied, back resting against the wall. He saw his eyes staring, unfocused, then shut.

"Potter, wake up." He gave a gasp, waking.

Voldemort took control of the memory and paused it. The boy appeared different to how he remembered. Not as scrawny. Not as… pathetic. Though still slender and small of frame, he appeared to have grown up. His hair was longer, more wild than usual.

He resumed the memory. Rookwood leaned closely, and the boy's pale face suddenly flushed with colour. Rookwood looked down, wondering what caused the reaction, and saw the spreading puddle. He'd barely paid attention to it. So many of his victims lost control of their bladders; he just ignored it at this point.

"Just noticed?"

The boy raised his head a little. The humiliation dimmed as anger replaced it. He made two sounds, two words blocked by the silencer. Voldemort drew his attention to the leather muzzle covering the bottom half of the boy's face. It had initially frustrated him to not properly hear the boy's cries of anguish, but now he saw the purpose it served. It robbed the boy of the ability to talk back, to use his anger as a way to cope and survive. It wasn't just a tool to prevent him from spreading sedition. It was meant to crush his spirit.

Rookwood cleaned up the mess and moved closer, grabbing the muzzle and forcing the boy's head up.

"Don't be ashamed. I've seen men much older than you wet themselves after a single bout," he told him "You held control for far more than that. I'm actually impressed. It's like you've known pain all your life."

The boy's expression hardened. Voldemort froze the memory again.

The boy's face was streaked with sweat, drips carving down his cheeks to under the leather muzzle. His green eyes were still bright, clear of any weakness. There were, however, the tell-tale stark red lines of blood vessels that had burst under the strain in the whites of his eyes.

The boy was purposefully not meeting Rookwood's eyes.

Ah, Voldemort thought, the boy knows about eye contact then.

Seeing enough, he left Rookwood's memory and paced away. He regarded the boy's wand in his hand, twirling it.

"What is your opinion of the boy, Rookwood?" Voldemort said, turning back to the man kneeling on the floor. He gestured for him to rise.

"My lord?" Rookwood was cautious as he got to his feet.

"Your… honest opinion, not what you think I want to hear."

Rookwood put his hands together, standing straight, composed as before.

"I believe he will be difficult to break, my lord. Despite his youth, he has resolve that surprised me."

"How so?"

"When I arrived, he was without the silencer," Rookwood said, watching Voldemort as he paced, "the guards were giving him water. I was concerned and planned to deal with them, but the boy… he said nothing. He was calm, controlled."

"Hmm…" Voldemort idly caressed the wand thoughtfully. "Reserving his strength, perhaps?"

"That was my thought as well, my lord," Rookwood said with a bow of his head. "He seems to be aware of his situation and taking measures to survive. It… impressed me, as you no doubt heard me say."

Voldemort was quiet for a moment.

"Good," he said, eventually. "It would have been immensely disappointing if he cracked after just one day. I do wonder if he shows the same determination tomorrow when you return after he spends a day with the veritas quaesitor."

"The quaesitor?" Rookwood murmured in surprise. "Yaxley intends to use that relic on the boy?"

"I gave him the permission to use it. Do you… disapprove?"

"No, my Lord," Rookwood said quickly, dipping his head. "I am merely surprised that Yaxley had knowledge of its existence. The Ministry purged it from the records, under Dumbledore's request, if I'm not mistaken.

"You are not." Voldemort said firmly. "I think it quite a pleasant twist of irony that the relic Dumbledore detested so much to be used against his greatest champion."

"Certainly," Rookwood gave an agreeing nod.

"Yet… I still detect some trace of disapproval from you, Rookwood. Please, speak your mind. I respect your opinion. You have, after all, been one of my most loyal Death Eaters over the years."

"My Lord, please forgive my reaction. I simply expected Yaxley to use veritaserum on the boy in order to extract his confession. It would have been the more reliable and direct route. While the quaesitor's truth magic is immensely potent, it also has some… drawbacks."

"Hmm…" Voldemort's red eyes rested on Rookwood's own, looking through the man. "Few have outwitted the quaesitor, it is true. Yet it requires great cunning. Something I do not believe Potter and his ilk possess."

"Of course. I expect his instinct will be to fight rather than think," Rookwood agreed. "Yaxley will have success with the quaesitor. Perhaps extracting his confession will break the boy's spirit in ways that pain alone cannot."

"Indeed, however this does not mean that I don't expect you to hold back in your own responsibilities. While Yaxley's task is to extract the truth from the boy, yours is still to deliver me his pain. You will continue to torture the boy until I come to take over myself."

"Yes, my lord."

"I noticed you were holding back. I appreciate your restraint, Rookwood, it's why I entrusted the task of his punishment to you and no one else."

"Thank you, my lord."

"If he starts to show signs of breaking, report to me. Remember, his mind and life belong to me."

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort regarded the wand in his hand. Rookwood looked at the wand, a crease appearing in his brow as he noticed that it wasn't Voldemort's usual wand.

"I will be away for a few days. There are some preparations I must make before I collect the boy for myself. If I am called back for anything other than a real, serious threat to the boy's sanity, I will use his wand to remove your own. Understand?"

Rookwood dropped his curious gaze. "Yes, my lord."

"The same goes for Yaxley. Remind him, will you?"

"I will."

Voldemort then gave him a smile. "Good. And do try to enjoy yourself, Rookwood. You are being given a gift that many, including myself, are deeply envious of. You get to hear the cries of the Boy-Who-Lived." He stared into the distance. "I look forward to hearing them myself."