Chapter V
The Inevitable Will Come
The pain was unbearable. Torture was bearable, torture was humane compared to what she was going through. This *is* torture, she reminded herself. This is immoral! This is death; torture; humilition; hate; anger; fear; all built into one!
She had not eaten since . . . well, the day she was abducted- and hadn't eaten since lunch that day. God, the growls that protruded from her stomach ended two days ago, and she could now feel herself melting away. She was already very skinny- but now she felt as though she was a prisoner of the Holocaust. The only light, and reassurement of life in the world around her, came from the window which was too high for her to escape from, and too small for her to fit through anyway. Even rats, it seemed, feared the home and wrath of Voldemort . . .
Oh, how she wished she had a wand with her now. . . .
She was weary. She found it impossible to stand; her legs didn't want to support her. Her mouth hung open and her tongue was unbearably dry. Her breathes came short and fast. Her tears had all left her and the only legacy that remained of her sorrow was the clear stains on her dirty cheeks and helpless look on her motionless body. She wanted to die. Her parents would never forgive her . . . she just wanted her life to end . . . miserable . . . alone: that was how she felt. Just let it end. . . .
* * *
Incompetent fools! Idiots! A sorry excuse for a Death Eater- the whole lot of them! Send them all to oblivion- that's what he should do. Another Dark Revel had come and gone and they hadn't come close to the mark he had set for his followers. Fifty! FIFTY! He was counting on atleast ten times that many dead muggles. Surely that wouldn't be *too* much to ask. It was clear that many of his followers had grown soft over the years. He made arrangements to deal with that at the next gathering. . . .
He had set orders for the Death Eaters to ambush a small town near Bristol and destroy its inhabitants. Yet even that task appeared to be too daunting to their abilities. He felt as though his Cause was fleeting him. He needed reassurance. He needed something to remind him of just how filthy muggles really were:
Powerless creatures . . . weak and dirty beings . . . having to do physical labor as opposed to having the sense to unlock their powers within. Spending their lives trying to figure out the mysteries of the world instead of smelling the flowers and looking at the world around them in a different perspective. . . . No, they were instead destroying the earth for large shelters to live in. Not that he was the conservative sort himself, but he loathed everything about the muggles. For instance, the way they regarded one another as human beings. Always at war, always fighting, always asking questions and knowing the answers all along; didn't wizards do that too? NO! Of course not! Only the incompetent sort, like the idiots who worked for him. He would have to have a long talk with them. . . .
At that moment Peter entered and cut off Voldemort's thoughts. "My Lord, forgive me!" he said in a squeaky voice.
"What is it imp? What news of the girl have you brought for me? Did she drink the potion?" he asked curiously.
Peter hesitated. He knew that the Dark Lord would not be pleased for what he had to report. "Eh . . . no?"
"No?" he raised an eyebrow to his interrogative answer. "No?"
Peter trembled as his master stood before him, wand poised and ready to hex him. "Crucio!" Voldemort let out.
A rush of cold sweat ran throughout his body. He wriggled from the intense feeling of an electric shock with the disturbing sensation of being tickled and pricked on every inch of his body. The room went dark as his eyes slid to the back of his head. The pain was too much, and he could only bear it for so long. . . . Many Death Eaters grew familiar with such torture, but Peter had found it more and more difficult to contain his squeals with every moment he was held in the curse.
His head was burning so intensely that he felt he was about to burst from the throbbing pain. Finally, just as he was on the brink of crying out, Voldemort released him. He crawled hurriedly to his master's cloaks and began to kiss the hem in apology.
"Forgive me my master, forgive me. She slapped the drink from my hand. She's refused to eat or drink anything. I can do nothing to force her without causing suspicion. Please My Lord, could we not find someone else? Someone who would be easier to subdue?" he suggested hesitantly.
Yet Voldemort heard none of this. He was too distracted in thought. How could he convince her to take the potion? Perhaps it wasn't as difficult as he had imagined. He could . . . ask her to dinner? Surely not what the little witch would expect from the Dark Lord who had killed countless numbers of her kind already. She didn't trust him, that much could easily be assumed. Suddenly, he was reminded of the little rat who was clinging to his robes. "Shod off Wormtail! You've served your purpose, now leave me before I use you for my entertainment!"
"Yes Master!" he said, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. Peter scurried away to his quarters so that he could breath a sigh of relief.
Voldemort made his way to the dungeons, still unsure of what he would do even when he got there. Yet he kept his face emotionless, his shoulders square, and kept a long stride as his cloak swept closely behind him.
As he unlocked the dungeon doors with a simple password ("Necavit!") he found Hermione, face down, sprawled unconscious on the floor of the prison.
* * *
Hermione awoke in a comfortable room and atop soft feather pillows and silk sheets. At first she thought it all a horrid dream- but knew better than that. The first thing that gave it away was the unfamiliar setting she found herself in. The room wasn't exactly gloomy- but it was NOT where she wanted to spend her summer vacation.
The walls of the small room reflected at every angle. They appeared to be made of mirrors- but she was sure that who ever was outside of the room could see straight in. It appeared to be a rather "high-class" dungeon. The room could not be much larger than the dungeon she was in before she had passed out. For one, the bed she was on took up one-half of the room, a slender table at the foot of the bed took up another bit, and the rest was an empty space that was only wide enough for her to sit with her legs extended. It expanded to a part of the wall that was very distinguishable as a door.However, it was laced with a golden frame so that it looked like a full-length mirror.
Now that she looked at herself, she seemed quite well rested, cleaned, and groomed as well. She knew better than to think that she appeared this way after over a week in a dungeon. Even her attire had changed and she was wearing long, silky, black robes that fit as though they were made for her. If it wasn't for her current disposition, she would be quite pleased with it all.
Suddenly, a house-elf entered the room with a large tray of mouth- watering meat and vegetables. A second elf carried tea and a glass. The food reminded her of how terribly hungry she was, but her freedom meant far more to her. She darted for the open door before the oppressed house-elves could stop her. However, her way was blocked by a tall, slender figure wearing dark robes and speaking with a deep bellow that reminded her of-
"Going somewhere?" Voldemort inquired.
Hermione stumbled backwards. Her gaze was fixed upon the Dark Lord himself . . . Vol- Vol- . . . Voldemort! She saw a smile sneak across his face as he saw her in such distress.
No words could escape her. She could scarcely find the time to catch her jaw which had fallen to the floor, let alone address the murderer of thousands- or more- muggles and wizards alike. That murdering *bastard*. He would have tortured, raped, or murdered her in the worst ways possible if he didn't want to hurt Harry so badly. He needed her, and she saw this to her advantage. And if he didn't need her, then her life was over just as quickly anyway. She made up her mind from that moment forward NOT to cower before the likes of a man too weak to deal with whatever past he had to live with.
She collected her thoughts and spoke her mind to him, though it was a few minutes after he addressed her. "Yes! I wish to leave! And if you plan on stopping me, then you had better think twice!"
"Oh?" he chuckled inwardly at her failing attempt to seem brave before him. "And what do *you* plan on doing if I do not allow you to pass?"
"THIS!" she shouted as she raised a bare foot to his groin and caused his face to go red and his knees to buckle- he tried his hardest not to show pain before the girl, but this was NOT the sort of pain that he was usually inflicted with- if any. That one incident, he thought, clearly would put a damper in his plans for a day or two. . . .
"Expelliarmas!" he squeaked hoarsely with his wand directed at her. She flew backwards and crashed against the opposite wall. The glass did not shatter, but the pressure knocked the breath out of her long enough for Voldemort to escape with some form of dignity and the elves to scurry out after him. The door was shut and she was left with a savory meal of chicken and steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes and a boiling pot of tea.
Resisting her yearning to eat was like denying herself air. Both weren't the furthest thought from her mind, but why force herself to suffer in her final days? Besides, who's to say that she wouldn't make it out alive? Everything bad happens for a good reason, her parents would say, and she hoped that they were right now above all other times.
She sat on the bed before the long table, which was high enough to eat from without having to slouch; poured herself some tea; collected some food onto her plate; and enjoyed her first meal in a week- which she knew could very well be her final one. All the while, she thought of the discomforted look Voldemort held after she inflicted some muggle-style pain on his wizarding-ass! She was quite pleased with herself and took a sip of tea without thinking twice of her actions towards Voldemort. She did not fear him. Anyone had the power to kill her, she knew that, and if he was going to kill her he would have done it already. If he still planned on killing her, atleast she would make his life hell before he did it.
*******A/N****** First off, I'd like to thank the anonymous-reviewer, Amy Lee, for her continued support and constructive criticism. You've helped so much and I'm trying to work on all that you've told me.
Anyway, I'm not sure, but I think this chapter is a bit longer, a bit better written, and a bit more in depth than the other chapters as far as Voldemort is concerend. Since I'm so unsure, I need whoever is reading this right now to click the little purple button at the bottom left-hand side of the page and REVIEW. This would help me so much and the reviews encourage me to update because I know then that someone is actually reading this crap and interested in what will come next... THANKS FOR ALL OF YOU WHO HAVE REVIEWED SO FAR! YOU'RE GREAT! ^_^
The pain was unbearable. Torture was bearable, torture was humane compared to what she was going through. This *is* torture, she reminded herself. This is immoral! This is death; torture; humilition; hate; anger; fear; all built into one!
She had not eaten since . . . well, the day she was abducted- and hadn't eaten since lunch that day. God, the growls that protruded from her stomach ended two days ago, and she could now feel herself melting away. She was already very skinny- but now she felt as though she was a prisoner of the Holocaust. The only light, and reassurement of life in the world around her, came from the window which was too high for her to escape from, and too small for her to fit through anyway. Even rats, it seemed, feared the home and wrath of Voldemort . . .
Oh, how she wished she had a wand with her now. . . .
She was weary. She found it impossible to stand; her legs didn't want to support her. Her mouth hung open and her tongue was unbearably dry. Her breathes came short and fast. Her tears had all left her and the only legacy that remained of her sorrow was the clear stains on her dirty cheeks and helpless look on her motionless body. She wanted to die. Her parents would never forgive her . . . she just wanted her life to end . . . miserable . . . alone: that was how she felt. Just let it end. . . .
* * *
Incompetent fools! Idiots! A sorry excuse for a Death Eater- the whole lot of them! Send them all to oblivion- that's what he should do. Another Dark Revel had come and gone and they hadn't come close to the mark he had set for his followers. Fifty! FIFTY! He was counting on atleast ten times that many dead muggles. Surely that wouldn't be *too* much to ask. It was clear that many of his followers had grown soft over the years. He made arrangements to deal with that at the next gathering. . . .
He had set orders for the Death Eaters to ambush a small town near Bristol and destroy its inhabitants. Yet even that task appeared to be too daunting to their abilities. He felt as though his Cause was fleeting him. He needed reassurance. He needed something to remind him of just how filthy muggles really were:
Powerless creatures . . . weak and dirty beings . . . having to do physical labor as opposed to having the sense to unlock their powers within. Spending their lives trying to figure out the mysteries of the world instead of smelling the flowers and looking at the world around them in a different perspective. . . . No, they were instead destroying the earth for large shelters to live in. Not that he was the conservative sort himself, but he loathed everything about the muggles. For instance, the way they regarded one another as human beings. Always at war, always fighting, always asking questions and knowing the answers all along; didn't wizards do that too? NO! Of course not! Only the incompetent sort, like the idiots who worked for him. He would have to have a long talk with them. . . .
At that moment Peter entered and cut off Voldemort's thoughts. "My Lord, forgive me!" he said in a squeaky voice.
"What is it imp? What news of the girl have you brought for me? Did she drink the potion?" he asked curiously.
Peter hesitated. He knew that the Dark Lord would not be pleased for what he had to report. "Eh . . . no?"
"No?" he raised an eyebrow to his interrogative answer. "No?"
Peter trembled as his master stood before him, wand poised and ready to hex him. "Crucio!" Voldemort let out.
A rush of cold sweat ran throughout his body. He wriggled from the intense feeling of an electric shock with the disturbing sensation of being tickled and pricked on every inch of his body. The room went dark as his eyes slid to the back of his head. The pain was too much, and he could only bear it for so long. . . . Many Death Eaters grew familiar with such torture, but Peter had found it more and more difficult to contain his squeals with every moment he was held in the curse.
His head was burning so intensely that he felt he was about to burst from the throbbing pain. Finally, just as he was on the brink of crying out, Voldemort released him. He crawled hurriedly to his master's cloaks and began to kiss the hem in apology.
"Forgive me my master, forgive me. She slapped the drink from my hand. She's refused to eat or drink anything. I can do nothing to force her without causing suspicion. Please My Lord, could we not find someone else? Someone who would be easier to subdue?" he suggested hesitantly.
Yet Voldemort heard none of this. He was too distracted in thought. How could he convince her to take the potion? Perhaps it wasn't as difficult as he had imagined. He could . . . ask her to dinner? Surely not what the little witch would expect from the Dark Lord who had killed countless numbers of her kind already. She didn't trust him, that much could easily be assumed. Suddenly, he was reminded of the little rat who was clinging to his robes. "Shod off Wormtail! You've served your purpose, now leave me before I use you for my entertainment!"
"Yes Master!" he said, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. Peter scurried away to his quarters so that he could breath a sigh of relief.
Voldemort made his way to the dungeons, still unsure of what he would do even when he got there. Yet he kept his face emotionless, his shoulders square, and kept a long stride as his cloak swept closely behind him.
As he unlocked the dungeon doors with a simple password ("Necavit!") he found Hermione, face down, sprawled unconscious on the floor of the prison.
* * *
Hermione awoke in a comfortable room and atop soft feather pillows and silk sheets. At first she thought it all a horrid dream- but knew better than that. The first thing that gave it away was the unfamiliar setting she found herself in. The room wasn't exactly gloomy- but it was NOT where she wanted to spend her summer vacation.
The walls of the small room reflected at every angle. They appeared to be made of mirrors- but she was sure that who ever was outside of the room could see straight in. It appeared to be a rather "high-class" dungeon. The room could not be much larger than the dungeon she was in before she had passed out. For one, the bed she was on took up one-half of the room, a slender table at the foot of the bed took up another bit, and the rest was an empty space that was only wide enough for her to sit with her legs extended. It expanded to a part of the wall that was very distinguishable as a door.However, it was laced with a golden frame so that it looked like a full-length mirror.
Now that she looked at herself, she seemed quite well rested, cleaned, and groomed as well. She knew better than to think that she appeared this way after over a week in a dungeon. Even her attire had changed and she was wearing long, silky, black robes that fit as though they were made for her. If it wasn't for her current disposition, she would be quite pleased with it all.
Suddenly, a house-elf entered the room with a large tray of mouth- watering meat and vegetables. A second elf carried tea and a glass. The food reminded her of how terribly hungry she was, but her freedom meant far more to her. She darted for the open door before the oppressed house-elves could stop her. However, her way was blocked by a tall, slender figure wearing dark robes and speaking with a deep bellow that reminded her of-
"Going somewhere?" Voldemort inquired.
Hermione stumbled backwards. Her gaze was fixed upon the Dark Lord himself . . . Vol- Vol- . . . Voldemort! She saw a smile sneak across his face as he saw her in such distress.
No words could escape her. She could scarcely find the time to catch her jaw which had fallen to the floor, let alone address the murderer of thousands- or more- muggles and wizards alike. That murdering *bastard*. He would have tortured, raped, or murdered her in the worst ways possible if he didn't want to hurt Harry so badly. He needed her, and she saw this to her advantage. And if he didn't need her, then her life was over just as quickly anyway. She made up her mind from that moment forward NOT to cower before the likes of a man too weak to deal with whatever past he had to live with.
She collected her thoughts and spoke her mind to him, though it was a few minutes after he addressed her. "Yes! I wish to leave! And if you plan on stopping me, then you had better think twice!"
"Oh?" he chuckled inwardly at her failing attempt to seem brave before him. "And what do *you* plan on doing if I do not allow you to pass?"
"THIS!" she shouted as she raised a bare foot to his groin and caused his face to go red and his knees to buckle- he tried his hardest not to show pain before the girl, but this was NOT the sort of pain that he was usually inflicted with- if any. That one incident, he thought, clearly would put a damper in his plans for a day or two. . . .
"Expelliarmas!" he squeaked hoarsely with his wand directed at her. She flew backwards and crashed against the opposite wall. The glass did not shatter, but the pressure knocked the breath out of her long enough for Voldemort to escape with some form of dignity and the elves to scurry out after him. The door was shut and she was left with a savory meal of chicken and steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes and a boiling pot of tea.
Resisting her yearning to eat was like denying herself air. Both weren't the furthest thought from her mind, but why force herself to suffer in her final days? Besides, who's to say that she wouldn't make it out alive? Everything bad happens for a good reason, her parents would say, and she hoped that they were right now above all other times.
She sat on the bed before the long table, which was high enough to eat from without having to slouch; poured herself some tea; collected some food onto her plate; and enjoyed her first meal in a week- which she knew could very well be her final one. All the while, she thought of the discomforted look Voldemort held after she inflicted some muggle-style pain on his wizarding-ass! She was quite pleased with herself and took a sip of tea without thinking twice of her actions towards Voldemort. She did not fear him. Anyone had the power to kill her, she knew that, and if he was going to kill her he would have done it already. If he still planned on killing her, atleast she would make his life hell before he did it.
*******A/N****** First off, I'd like to thank the anonymous-reviewer, Amy Lee, for her continued support and constructive criticism. You've helped so much and I'm trying to work on all that you've told me.
Anyway, I'm not sure, but I think this chapter is a bit longer, a bit better written, and a bit more in depth than the other chapters as far as Voldemort is concerend. Since I'm so unsure, I need whoever is reading this right now to click the little purple button at the bottom left-hand side of the page and REVIEW. This would help me so much and the reviews encourage me to update because I know then that someone is actually reading this crap and interested in what will come next... THANKS FOR ALL OF YOU WHO HAVE REVIEWED SO FAR! YOU'RE GREAT! ^_^