Day Seven
He was counting hours, which was a complicated project, considering that James had no way of knowing what time it was. But he knew that today was the seventh day. He knew that it was almost over—yet time seemed to crawl because of his anticipation. It was almost impossible to act as if nothing was going to happen, as if today wasn't the day that he would finally be able to save his best friend. Both the Portkey and the wand were scheduled to appear an hour before midnight, theoretically when the prison ought to be quietest. So far, that had proved true, and James could only pray that today would be no different.
What frightened him was that Sirius had been so quiet. Normally, James' time alone in his cell was punctuated by listening to his friend scream, but not today. Was Sirius still too weak from the Poenatoxicum, or was this something more? Worry gnawed at him, and James was so sick of doing nothing that he was ready to scream. Soon, he promised himself. His best estimate meant that there were less than ten hours before midnight. Very soon.
He swallowed, thinking of his friend. Hang in there, Sirius. It won't be much longer. Shivering, James burrowed deeper into the corner of his cell and drew his knees up to his chest. All he could do was wait.
Clank. The thought had no sooner crossed his mind when the cell door slid open. For some reason, he wasn't surprised to find Voldemort himself standing in the entrance; lately, James had noticed a marked increase in the amount of time that the Dark Lord spent taunting him. Don't you have a world to take over or something? he wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. Foolish remarks like that only resulted in Sirius getting hurt.
"Hello, James."
James started, sitting up straighter and staring warily at the Dark Lord. Voldemort was never polite. He was never laid back. And he was never friendly. What the hell is going on? The high-pitched voice had been entirely too quiet and congenial for his tastes.
"I see that you're not much in the mood for conversation." Voldemort stepped in the cell, letting the door slide shut behind him. Only then did James realize that his opponent had come in alone, sans Dementors or demented Lestranges. Something was very, very wrong.
He scrambled to his feet. "Why should I be?"
The Dark Lord smiled. "That is a good question," he continued softly. "Because you are waiting, aren't you? Counting the hours and waiting…"
A chill ran down James' spine, and he struggled to keep his expression blank. He's guessing. He has to be guessing. Still, he suddenly felt that he had reason to be very afraid.
"I'm waiting for a lot of things," he replied levelly.
"Of course you are."
Meeting those burning red eyes became more impossible every day. One thing James had never been accused of was cowardice, but those who spoke of clinging to principles and courage no matter what the cost had never been faced with their best friend's death. They had never had to live day in and day out, knowing that their best friend would pay for their mistakes, that their brotherwould suffer in their place. James had rarely been an advocate of caution; he was much more prone to leading with his cheeky mouth than his smarter mind, but he had learned the hard way not to snap back at Voldemort. The price simply wasn't worth paying.
"What are you getting at?" he asked cautiously.
"The question, James, is what you are getting at," came the response. "What you are waiting for."
Something very cold and painful stabbed into his gut. He knows. James tried to push the thought away, but the fear stayed with him. There was no way, but Voldemort knew. Was he guessing? It was possible… The Dark Lord wasn't stupid, after all. He'd been trying to capture James for years. It was entirely believable that he had decided that success had come too easily, and that there had to be a catch. He shivered again, wanting to back away from Voldemort but unable to. He already had his back to the wall.
"I do wonder," the Dark Lord continued. "Why you wait. Three words will save your friend, James. Swear to serve me and you will save his life. I give you my word on that."
"You enjoy making offers you know I can't take, don't you?" James demanded. His nerves were strung to the breaking point now. He couldn't bear to keep listening to how he could give in and save Sirius.
"Oh, no. I enjoy making offers that I know you will take."
Before he could stop himself, he snorted, "Dream on."
Red eyes flashed, and he knew he'd gone too far. Voldemort's quasi-pleasant voice hardened, yet remained very soft. He almost had to strain to hear it. "The question, James, is how long you will wait. I warn you now that you have seen nothing of what I can do. What has happened to your friend has yet been a taste of what he will experience if you do not comply."
He'd heard those words before, nearly those very same words, but there was something about the voice that frightened James deeply. He opened his mouth to respond, even though he was unsure what he was going to say, but the merciless voice continued.
"My patience, however, is limited. Extremely limited. So I will give you this one final chance to submit. Do so, and you will save your friend. Do not, and he will pay dearly."
For a moment, the heavy feeling of dread in James' chest would not let him reply. Finally, though, he managed to speak around the horror.
"You know I can—"
"Do not say can't, James," Voldemort cut him off. "You will regret the word. Accept now, or you will have to beg me later."
He felt sick, but at least that was one thing he could be sure of. "I will never beg to join you," James replied coldly.
"You say that as if you mean it." Voldemort's voice had become almost pleasant again. "I could almost admire your courage if were it not so misplaced."
Slowly, the Dark Lord turned, and James could think of nothing to say. All he could do was promise himself that Voldemort's threats would never have the time to come to pass. It's almost over, he reminded himself desperately. A few hours, and then this ends. But nightfall could not come soon enough, and a part of him was still terrified of the consequences. What he had seen done to Sirius outpaced any of the nightmares James had ever even imagined; he could not even begin to think of how Voldemort could make things worse. But if there was one thing he had learned in Azkaban, it was that anything could get worse.
As the door slid open, Voldemort paused. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "How many hours is it, James?" he asked suddenly.
No.
"Nine, isn't it? Eleven o' clock and everything ends."
Impossible. He felt frozen to the spot.
"I am correct, am I not?"
This can't be happening.
Voldemort smiled slowly. "I have the Portkey, James. And I have your wand." His voice was unbelievably gentle. "It is over."
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Somehow, he awoke in the Interrogation Chair again. He hardly remembered going unconscious—had someone stunned him before he could notice?—but James could not miss the sudden coldness. And he could not miss the frozen voice that spoke his name.
"Are you feeling sorry for yourself, James?" Voldemort asked as he opened his eyes. "Are you beginning to feel that this has all been for nothing?"
The Dark Lord was leaning over him, so close that James could feel him breathing. "I—"
"All that fighting…all that resistance…for nothing. You have sentenced your friend to Hell, and to what end?" The red eyes burned into his own; James could not help shivering. "From the beginning, my friend, I knew. I have known your purpose since you came to Azkaban, full of righteous courage and self-confidence. Until now, I have enjoyed playing your game."
"What?" he choked.
Voldemort smiled. "You have been betrayed. From the very beginning, you have been betrayed."
"That's impossible." He stared as the other turned, moving casually away from him. No. No. No! Anything but that—there are only so many people who can know, and none of them would… James shivered again, feeling trapped, feeling utterly alone for the first time since he'd come to Azkaban. He was alone. But none of them would…
The Dark Lord's voice suddenly grew cold as he turned back to face James. "Play time is over. Now the test begins."
"The what—?"
Voldemort reached down and suddenly grabbed an unresisting Sirius by the hair. James hadn't even noticed his friend's presence, but there he was, limp and nearly lifeless as the Dark Lord dragged him off of the floor. Sirius only moaned, almost inaudibly, but the pain on his face didn't frighten James nearly as much as the cold feeling of dread that suddenly seized him did. He had never seen Voldemort touch Sirius before. Never. Not once. This is bad. This is going to be very bad—
And there was no one in the room but them, no one other than James, Sirius, Voldemort, and the Dementors. Instinct told James that the Dark Lord felt no need to show off for his followers, and that when they were alone, it was time to worry. Sirius whimpered softly as Voldemort jerked up on his hair as if to prove a point. His eyes were shut, and his expression was almost slack from exhaustion.
"It is time to find out exactly how much you are willing to sacrifice. There is no way out now. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is nothing but you, and your choices, condemning your 'brother' to death."
He jerked again on Sirius' hair, but the skeletal prisoner hardly reacted. Voldemort, however, seemed unsurprised. Very precisely, he placed his wand against Sirius' throat. "Brevisalvum Mali."
Sirius' body shuddered and James saw his eyes fly open as false energy ran through his body. Agony flickered over his face, but with it came increased awareness that was out of place in his battered features. Brevisalvum Mali was the Quick Heal Spell used by Aurors in the field when serious injuries simply had to be overlooked, when circumstances forced injured Aurors to fight. But the miracle spell came with a high price; after an hour's ability to function normally, the subject felt far worse than they had at the beginning…and the pain never left.
"So tell me, James, what the end will be. Tell me you'll let him die."
"James—"
"Crucio!" It seemed that Voldemort had expected Sirius to object, and James' friend screamed as the curse hit. The Dark Lord's wand was tight against his throat for the first moment, but Sirius' body jerked with newfound strength, and Voldemort dropped him to the floor as he screamed, maintaining the curse.
A single gesture brought two Dementors forward, and they lifted Sirius' convulsing form between them. James winced as his friend's screams grew louder, and as Sirius' face tightened with both real and remembered agony. His nightmares have to be almost worse than reality, James thought brokenly. Behind the screams, behind the pain, he could see Sirius trying to draw inside of himself, trying to shield a corner of his soul from the Dementors—but Voldemort kept him under the torture curse as the Dementors slammed him onto the table, letting him twitch and writhe and scream.
Slowly, the Dark Lord walked around to the head of the table until he stood right above Sirius' face. One of the Dementors was holding Sirius' feet, the other his shoulders, yet his body almost jerked out of their grip as Voldemort's wand came down to rest, almost gently, against Sirius' right cheek. Only then did the burning gaze seek out James once more.
"Do you remember that I told you that I gave your friend the Anti-Poenatoxicum because I wished to, James?" he asked coldly; somehow, his voice could still be heard over Sirius' screams. "That I told you to remember that the relief was only temporary?"
No. Cold pain seized up in James' throat. He won't—"Don't!"
"Don't what?" the Dark Lord asked mockingly. "I warned you. And now he pays."
One long fingered hand beckoned a third Dementor forward. For the first time, James saw the vial that Voldemort held in that very same hand; the other, of course, still held the wand against Sirius' face. The screams were beginning to fade, even with the added strength the Quick Heal Spell gave Sirius. He was more gasping than screaming, now, but his body was still trying futilely to jerk out of the Dementors' grip.
"Hold his head." There was no amusement in that voice now, only coldness.
"Please don't do this." The words tumbled out before James could stop them, and in truth, he would not have stopped even if he had thought to do so. "He can't—"
"Oh, but he will," Voldemort cut him off sharply. "Until you surrender."
Sirius wailed as the third Dementor took his head in its bony hands. Voldemort's wand transferred to lie against his throat, and James suddenly realized that he was not going to remove the torture curse, either—
"No!"
The Dementor forced Sirius' mouth open even as James shouted in protest. His friend's cry choked off, and James saw him shudder—he had to know what was coming. Even through the pain, his face tightened, and James could tell that he was trying to brace himself…yet it did no good. This time, the effect was almost immediate. As soon as Voldemort poured the potion down Sirius' throat, his body went into sick convulsions, and less than thirty seconds later, he let out an agonized screech.
Long moments passed, and James could only watch his friend suffer through suddenly blurry vision. His body was jerking crazily; had the Dementors not been holding him down, James knew he would have broken at least a bone or two in addition to the injuries he already had. Between the Poenatoxicumand the Cruciatus Curse, Sirius' screams had progressed into wails of pain, yet James heard half-rational whispers filling the space between his cries. Nightmares. Sirius was living a nightmare. Surrounded by Dementors and in so much pain, could he tell memory from reality?
Suddenly, Voldemort stepped away, lifting the curse. Yet Sirius' tormented wails did not lessen; in fact, they grew worse as Sirius became lost in pain that would not stop. Every breath became a sob, and James could see past and present merging as Sirius struggled for air through the pain, screaming all the while. The Dementor at his head was slowly stroking his face, making Sirius flinch every time the cold fingers made contact—
"The last time he faced this hell, he was lucky." Voldemort was standing only feet away from James, watching the Dementors savor Sirius' pain with a satisfied smirk. "He spent that time with you. This time, the company will be slightly…different."
"No…" He could not form coherent speech.
"Oh, yes. And how long will you leave him under the potion, Gryffindor? Until he dies, or until you give in?"
James' mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He could only listen to Sirius' wails and sit there helplessly, knowing that he was the cause of it all. Even as he watched, he could see his friend's control shattering…Sirius' head was jerking back and forth as he tried to irrationally escape the Dementors. The three creatures were crowded close to the table, drinking in the screams and the pain. The one at the head of the table cradled Sirius' face in its hands almost lovingly, continuing to run its gray fingers over his contorted features. Then one of the others shifted slightly, also reaching out a hand to touch Sirius' face.
Tears began to pour down Sirius cheeks, and James saw him begin to fight in earnest, struggling pointlessly against the cold hands that held him. He was lost in the pain, in the fear, teetering on the edge of insanity and terror. His screams continued growing louder, no matter how weak he became; James knew that the Quick Heal Spell had given him temporary strength that would later only hurt him more, but was now the reason why he could react so noisily.
James felt sick. For a moment, he considered simply begging Voldemort to end this, but he pushed the thought aside. Pride, however, did not cause him to do so; rather, it was the knowledge that even begging would do no good. The Dark Lord had made that clear. Only one thing would stop Sirius' suffering…except for death, but James was not so defeated that he could ever hope for his best friend to die. Even if it would be a release—Cold finality mixed with the nauseous feeling in his stomach. No. Anything but that. I won't let him die here after he's fought for so long. Another thought, unbidden, drifted at the edge of his consciousness, but he ignored it. I'll find a way, James swore silently. I will find a way.
But Sirius' shrieks continued. There were two Dementors stroking his face, now, making him shudder and wail and mumble incoherently. James saw his lips move between screams, but could not make out the words if there were any at all. Sirius was simply lost, unable to do anything but react to the pain and the terror.
"He's a loud one, isn't he?" Voldemort asked conversationally. Something in his voice made James' head whip around. "Almost enough to give me a headache."
He was afraid to speak, but suddenly noticed that the Dark Lord now held something else in his left hand.
A cold smile. "Fortunately, there is a way to avoid that." As James stared with wide eyes, Voldemort dangled the contraption in front of his face. "Do you know what this is?"
The majority of the object seemed to be made of leather; there were two straps that could be connected by a buckle, but were not yet. Joining the two straps, however, was a straight metal rod only a few inches long. On second glance, however, the rod didn't seem to be very straight; it seemed somewhat bumpy—James squinted through his dirty glasses. Those bumps were spikes, and another metal strip extended perpendicular from the center of the rod. This one was vaguely rectangular, ad maybe two or three inches wide by three inches long. It, too, had the same bumps—spikes.
Oh, God.
"Crucio!" Sirius screeched even louder. "Do you know, James?"
"No." It took a hard moment to find his voice. "I don't."
Voldemort withdrew the curse with a flick of his wand; James struggled not to stare at Sirius. He had a feeling that the Dark Lord wanted his undivided attention, and he had no intention of letting Voldemort punish Sirius for his actions. A moment later, he was proven correct:
"Medieval Muggles called it the brank. Although we have improved its design since then, I enjoy the irony of its use—Muggles used to employ the brank to keep suspected witches or wizards from speaking the words to any spells." The cold smile grew. "It is, of course, rather less efficient than a simple Silencing Charm. But the brank is much more painful."
He felt his jaw drop open. "Please, don't—"
But the Dark Lord was not paying attention to him; Voldemort had turned his back, and was strolling over to the table. Immediately, the Dementors moved aside for their Lord, leaving Sirius shuddering in relief even as he cried out in continued pain. But James could tell that he was still too disoriented to resist as Voldemort swiftly strapped the brank in place. A sharp jerk tightened it, and Sirius let out a muffled scream when the spikes dung into his mouth—and then wailed again from the pain the first scream had caused.
The Dementors closed in again as Sirius began thrashing in pain, and James heard the absolute heartbreak in his muffled wails. Blood was pouring down Sirius' chin, mixing with the tears that ran down his cheeks, but the Dementors did not seem to care. One grabbed his head immediately, and James winced as it again began to stroke Sirius' face, oblivious to the agony and terror that caused. Within seconds, another crowded close to his friend's face, and James saw it lean down, drawing in Sirius' nightmares and pain. There was nothing that Dementors thrived on more than heartbreak and loss; when they tore away happy memories and left horrors in their place, the foul creatures found their own hellish version of heaven.
Long moments ticked by, and all James could do was watch in horror. All he could do was listen to Sirius' screams, knowing that his friend could not stop screaming, no matter how great the pain. To his left, Voldemort was smiling again, for he knew the truth behind the brank—the Dark Lord would probably have called this the beauty of the device. But the blood running down Sirius' chin was proof enough in itself; as he screamed, the pain increased, and as the pain increased, he screamed still more.
"I estimate that he has another fifteen minutes before he'll scream no more," Voldemort suddenly said. "As you well know, the Quick Heal will have worn off by then, and will leave him in far worse condition than before."
Something salty crept in the corner of his mouth, and James realized that they were his own silent tears. He cared not how long he'd been weeping; pride hardly mattered now. He had nothing to hide, only a friend to watch. A friend who would die.
"And yet you do nothing." He had not thought the cruel voice could be so gentle. "You weep for your friend, yet you do nothing…when three words from you would end it all. Submit to me and end the pain. Let your friend be given the Anti-Poenatoxicum and let him suffer no more.
"Is it so difficult, James?"
There was nothing to be said that he had not said a dozen times before. He could not, would not… Yet the temptation was there, lurking beneath the surface in ways that it had never done before. Driving it away, James closed his eyes, feeling the tears wet his cheeks. He couldn't… A wand, suddenly, touched the bottom of his chin.
"No. You will watch."
Sirius' screams were growing weaker; perhaps he was losing strength, despite the Quick Heal, or maybe in his condition the spell could not last nearly so long. Either way, his body's frightful jerking was slowing, and his muffled shrieks were beginning to fade into weak moans.
The horrible silence continued, but Sirius suffered on. Eventually, he grew quiet, and James almost wished that Voldemort would say something, would do something—anything to lessen the horror of watching his best friend fade. Within moments, the Quick Heal Spell's effects had dissipated, leaving Sirius still paler and quieter than he had been in the beginning. Still, though, he moaned, barely twitching from the pain. The limp exhaustion that James had seen earlier was intensified now; there were moments when he feared that his friend would stop breathing entirely.
Yet it went on, and on, and he couldn't even think of something challenging enough to distract Voldemort from Sirius. But even if he had, James knew that it would do no good—the Dementors remained with his friend, touching and holding, increasing his pain and undoubtedly highlighting every nightmare in his mind. They stroked his bloody face as tears rolled down his cheeks, with their cold hands making him twitch and flinch. Finally, though, Sirius ceased to react at all, and James watched him lay there, in silent pain.
"Think of him, James." Voldemort's voice came softly, right in his ear. "Think of him as you wait in the relative peace of your cell, and think on this: which will last longer, your resistance, or his life?"
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