I don't own Harry Potter or Call of Duty. This is a fan-based creation.
Before reading, please know that this is a one-shot story. My goal is to start small with my stories, but to post frequently. My aim is to develop a habit, and to incrementally grow until I am comfortable with posting as well as writing longer works. So, for now, the story will be all that there is now. It doesn't mean that I won't possibly develop this one-shot into a longer story down the line, but I'm not making any promises.
Interrogation:
Hereford, home of the Special Air Service (SAS), had fallen to the forces of Voldemort. Countless bodies of brave, British soldiers littered the training grounds. Those who had survived were bound and corralled by the Death Eaters.
The greatest amount of carnage was perhaps the SAS headquarters. Throughout the halls, there were bullet holes, scorch marks, puddles of blood, and the bodies of SAS and Death Eater alike.
Suddenly, there was a sound that was like a gunshot in front of the main entrance to the headquarters building. A tall, black-cloaked, hooded figure was standing in the courtyard that had been empty just seconds before.
Voldemort had arrived.
He approached the doors, which opened for him. The Dark Lord's cloak dragged along the ground, making it seem that he was sliding across the floor. The Death Eaters bowed as he passed. He ignored them for the most part. He only had a desire to speak to one man and no one else.
After navigating the battle-scarred halls, Voldemort reached another set of doors that were guarded by a pair of his Death Eaters. They opened the doors for him as he approached.
The room was enormous, rows of desks and computers were arranged toward a large set of screens. This room was the command center for SAS operations and had been the final front of the battle that had been waged.
Desks were splintered and overturned. Computers lay on the ground in scorched pieces. Some of the big screens on the wall were shattered and were sparking with electricity. The Death Eaters who had taken the room were resting and tending to their wounded and dead. At Voldemort's entrance, those who were able to, bowed, while others delivered an awed "My Lord" to him.
Towards the back of the command center was an office guarded by another pair of Death Eaters. On its doors was a plaque that had "Major General George MacMillan" engraved upon it.
Voldemort heard sounds coming from behind the doors. Sounds of someone striking someone. The Death Eaters parted before him as he slid to the door. The door was opened for him and he entered the room.
What had once been a fine office was a scattered mess of debris of what had once comprised it. In the center of it, was a gray-haired man in his fifties bound to a chair. Bruises and scars were littered across his face. The reason as to why was the black-haired woman who stood before him.
Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's most loyal and devout follower. Her devotion to him bordered upon religious zealotry, and her methods were ones that made even blood-thirsty vampires and werewolves wary of her. She was Voldemort's best agent. Whatever he asked of her, he knew would be followed to the letter.
However, sometimes her devotion came into conflict with her orders. When Voldemort ordered her to take Hereford and to capture the man in the chair, he specified that he was to be harmed as little as possible. But knowing Bellatrix, it didn't take much to incur her sadistic wrath. He had probably refused to answer a question or even taunted her.
"My patience is wearing thin, muggle," Bellatrix snapped at the man. "Talk or I will make you…"
Bellatrix's words might have influenced a wizard or witch familiar with her reputation or even a random civilian muggle. But not this man.
"Your threats are meaningless to this man, Bellatrix," Voldemort said with his soft yet malevolent voice.
Bellatrix whirled around, wide eyed and dropped into a bow.
"My Lord," she said.
Voldemort approached the man, who smirked at the Dark Lord. Voldemort's eyes narrowed in anger as he continued to speak.
"This muggle, albeit just as decadent as the rest of his kind, is not quite like the others. He is a soldier. Not just any soldier, a member of the SAS. They possess stronger wills than average muggles.
"They are trained to endure torture and interrogation; to take their secrets to the grave. They are always plotting, observing, planning. They are as tenacious as they are defiant. As much as it grieves me to say this, they possess qualities that I wished more of wizard-kind had. These men, to compare them to the wizard-world, are the Slytherins of muggle-kind."
The man smiled darkly, his eyes defiant.
"Hello, Tommy," the man greeted backhandedly, his voice containing a Scottish burr.
Voldemort's grit his teeth. He despised it when people called him by his old name "Tom", but the familiarity and childish aura of "Tommy" incensed him even worse. But he said nothing. To respond would be to give the muggle exactly what he wanted.
Bellatrix bristled at the muggle's slight against her master.
"How dare you?! You shall address him as the 'Dark Lord' as he so–"
Voldemort raised his hand.
"Peace, Bellatrix. It is one of his tricks. He knows that anger will cloud your judgment, and he will exploit it to his advantage. Correct…MacMillan?"
MacMillan's smile only seemed to grow.
"You've gotten uglier since I last saw ya, Tommy, all those years ago…"
"A small price to pay for power, Macmillan."
"My, my, calling me 'MacMillan.' That's not what you and your Grim Reaper lads used to call me back in the day."
"What can I say? Despite your meddlesome actions, even I must admit your tenacity was impressive. Most muggles would have sought the presence of muggle-loving witches and wizards. But you fought my followers without as much as a Squib to help you. Brave, yet foolish."
"It worked though, didn't it? That's the problem with us Muggles, isn't it, Tommy? The moment we act out of the ordinary, you lot have no idea what to do. And generally, there aren't enough survivors left to know how to fight back…"
"Ah, but I remembered just enough from the Muggle world to know what sorts of tricks you would resort to. It was you who killed Renford at Kent eighteen years ago, I presume? I was standing in front of him before I apparated."
Macmillan sighed, shaking his head.
"If you'd only apparated two seconds later, I would've had ya. But Renford was an appropriate substitute. He killed three Aurors and five families."
"I don't remember; were they Wizards or Muggles?"
Macmillan's face hardened. The old warrior stared straight into Voldemort's eyes, a feat that not even wizards had done.
"The fact that any family, regardless of what blood they had, were slaughtered is heinous by itself. The death of grown men and women is tragic enough. But children? There's a special place in Hell for the likes of you, Tommy..."
Voldemort smirked.
"A pity that I shall never see it, MacMillan. For I am Lord Voldemort, and I cannot die; as your protégé discovered for himself when we fought at the Ministry."
"Oh, I heard all about that little tussle. Is it true that he and Ghost took the mickey out of ya? Imagine the embarrassment: having your ass handed to ya by a muggle and a squib. That's pretty pathetic for an all-powerful Dark Lord. Right, Tommy?"
Bellatrix glared at MacMillan. She deeply wished to inflict a long and terrible punishment upon the muggle but did not wish to intrude upon her master.
"The only reason either of them left alive was because of Dumbledore's timely arrival. And now that my former professor is gone, there will be no-one there to save them the next time we meet.
"Which is precisely why I am here. I know that you know where Potter and the rest of your men are skulking about. I desire to know just exactly where they are."
MacMillan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
"Oh, Tommy…" MacMillan said mockingly. "It's like you don't know me at all. I'd rather be damned than tell you so much as a word."
"That can be arranged!" Bellatrix said as she stepped forward. She drew her wand, pointing it at MacMillan's head. She pressed the tip of her wand against his temple, jabbing it hard into his flesh. "You will tell us everything or I will make you suffer."
Despite the severity of the situation, MacMillan couldn't help rolling his eyes.
"I'm already suffering just listening to your screeching voice, ya Blair Bitch Bimbo."
Voldemort took a step back.
"You may try, Bellatrix. But I would not expect him to break so easily."
Bellatrix then backed away, keeping her wand pointed at MacMillan's head.
"Crucio!"
MacMillan suddenly went rigid within his chair. His hands gripped the arms of his seat, his knuckles turning white. His eyes widened and his head shook ever so slightly.
But the only sound MacMillan made was a series of strained grunts. From an inexperienced onlooker, it appeared as if MacMillan was suffering from a nasty bout of constipation.
The reality of the situation, on the other hand, was completely different. Every square inch of MacMillan's body, from the inside-out felt like it was being stabbed by thousands of hot pokers. It felt as though every second he was reaching a new peak of pain he didn't know existed before.
But he would not give either of them satisfaction. He would not show weakness.
Bellatrix stared at the old SAS commando, baffled by his resistance. The crazed witch was no stranger to torture, having performed the act hundreds of times upon all kinds of victims, from the feeblest Muggle to the most stoic Wizard. Regardless of who she tortured, her victims screamed or begged for mercy. It was what brought her the most glee.
But this muggle didn't make so much as a peep. In all her years of inflicting pain on others, she had never encountered a wizard, let alone a muggle, who could withstand her assault of torment.
After a few more seconds, Bellatrix ceased the curse. She observed the muggle, livid at his endurance. Some of the greatest wizards had broken sooner than this muggle.
MacMillan slumped over in his chair, panting heavily.
Voldemort sighed. Not in disappointment, but because it went just about as much as he had expected.
"As I said, Bellatrix…he has been conditioned to endure torture. He could be exposed to the Cruciatus Curse for days, but he would not break."
"Then I shall use the Imperius Curse instead, My Lord!" Bellatrix huffed, confident that she could succeed. "He has already been softened by the Cruciatus Curse. His secrets will be revealed soon enough!"
Voldemort sighed.
"If you truly think so…" he drawled.
If Bellatrix registered her master's condescending tone, she did not show it. Standing squarely, she raised her wand at MacMillan once more.
"Imperio!"
In an instant, MacMillan's eyes seemed to dilate and were covered with a cloudy glaze. MacMillan heard what sounded like a sweet, soothing voice within his head.
Go on…Tell her…What harm could it possibly do…Price can handle himself…You've served faithfully for so long…You deserve a moment of reprieve…Just open your mouth and speak…
But at the same time, there seemed to be a more familiar, rigid voice saying otherwise.
No! Not a word! You swore an oath! If you tell them anything, all of your men's deaths would have been for nothing! Lily and James would have died for nothing! Tell them nothing!
For a moment, it seemed like the defiant voice was winning. That MacMillan was regaining control over his mind.
But then he felt his lips part. His tongue raised, prepared to vocalize. He felt the air enter his mouth, ready to exhale the truth.
He was going to break. He was going to tell them. Just one moment. He needed just one moment!
Then his mind pierced through the fog. MacMillan sucked in his cheeks and bit down. Hard.
The sudden pain dissipated the mental miasma within his mind, and he was back in full control. He spewed the blood from his mouth, splattering Bellatrix's clothes and astonished face.
"How dare you?!" She snarled, as she backhanded him across the face.
Voldemort simply half chuckled, half cackled.
"Ah, MacMillan…even in defeat you still carry on. If only you were a wizard, you could've been one of my greatest subjects. And… you still can be…"
MacMillan looked up at Voldemort, tired and confused.
"Just what are you bloody talking about now, ya goddamn snake-charmer?"
"I may have taken over the Ministry of Magic, and it won't be long until I have brought all who oppose me to heel. But I'm no fool. I am not fully prepared to deal with the Muggles yet. And even I know that after I achieve my goal of putting muggle-kind in its place, the muggles will require a…figurehead, so to speak."
"That's what ya want? For me to be the bloody head-slave?"
"Let it not be said that Lord Voldemort does not see potential in those who prove themselves. Even in his enemies. In my new world order, you would be the most powerful muggle in the world. Greater than the royalty and nobility that you serve. Your every want and need met and delivered. Within reason of course."
"You want me to break my oath? To turn my back on everyone and everything I've sworn to protect?"
"Don't think of it as breaking your oath. But as…exchanging it for a new and better one."
"And what about everyone else? The muggles who you'd have me preside over. What will happen to them?"
"They will come to understand the way that world works. Those who recognize it and serve with distinction shall be rewarded. And those who do not shall be punished. That is how the world works. You see, I am only cruel when it is necessary. But to experience my grace and mercy, is a true gift. This is my mercy, from me to you, MacMillan.
"So…what say you?"
"You're quite the snake-charmer, Tommy. I'll give you that. But you're really out of your goddamn tree, aren't ya?
"I'm afraid I'll have to decline your offer. My principles dictate to never work for blokes who look like they crawled out of the very depths of hell itself. It's a recipe for disaster. "
Voldemort grimaced in anger.
"I see that you are quite set in your beliefs at the moment. That is unfortunate. But I understand. Sometimes it takes longer for others to understand the truth. You will understand…eventually."
Then Voldemort straightened up, turning to the door.
"Bellatrix, come with me for a moment."
"Of course, My Lord." Bellatrix said, bowing before following Voldemort out of the office.
Once they were outside, Voldemort stopped and turned to Bellatrix.
"MacMillan knows more than he lets on. Even if he doesn't know where Potter and Price are exactly, he knows where they might go. I will send word to Severus to brew a batch of Veritaserum. That should guarantee success. Until then, continue to interrogate him, Bellatrix. MacMillan must understand the error of his ways. Do not be afraid to be…creative."
"Meaning, My Lord?"
"MacMillan may be able to withstand the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses. But how would he respond should he see his own men subjected to it? I'm also aware of your fondness for sharp objects, Bellatrix. Sometimes, the simpler options are the most effective…Don't you agree?"
Bellatrix grinned malevolently. She understood her master's insinuations.
"Of course, My Lord. Whatever helps achieve our goals."
"Splendid. I shall leave you to it, then. Oh, and Bellatrix?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Try not to kill him. He may prove to be useful to us yet…"
"Of course, My Liege. I shall exercise restraint on your behalf."
"Off you go, my dear."
Voldemort then proceeded to exit the building. All will fall before Voldemort. It is never a question of if, only when.
Author's Note:
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