Warning: Very dark with torture, blood, and gore. The usual viewer discretion warning that no one ever listens to.
Chapter XXXIII: The Inquisitor
Harry felt his eyelids open, and close. Darkness was all he could see, and for a brief moment he feared he was blind. It took him a moment of struggling before he calmed down, and took stock of his situation. He couldn't see, but his other senses could work, and the sense of touch was his most important asset at the moment. On his cheeks, and ears, he could feel cloth and rough cloth at that. This meant that in keeping with standard procedure in most armies they had blindfolded and hooded him, more then likely with a tourniquet and sandbag. He tried moving his arms, and legs, and found that their movement was restricted. Judging by the plastic feel, this meant that they had used the one shot plastic hand cuffs that had become vogue during the Gulf War to deal with captured Iraqis on him.
The floor he was on was of concrete, which meant that they had moved him to a permanent facility, but since he was still in the wet, muddy clothes he had on before there was a good chance that he hadn't been held that long. This meant they had to exfiltrate out of Hogwarts pretty damn fast, and their mission was obviously a fiasco. On the other hand, this meant that the odds of him being rescued quickly had just gotten dimmer, and they were still going to need a great deal of time before they could plan, and execute a rescue operation. This in turn meant that he was in the shit big time…
Don't think of that shit, Harry. He thought to himself. For a moment, he had been seized with a fit of depression as he gave it a deal of thought as to just what was going to happen to him, what was probably going to happen to him. Mentally, he shook aside the thoughts of torture, and took the time to think that if they were holding him alive, they were either going to interrogate him, or use him as a bargaining chip.
From what he had gleaned from the intelligence at his disposal, the vampires were a free-wheeling, mercenary faction that tended to play all sides against the middle, for their own good. After all, vampires were in big demand by the more intelligent practitioners of the Dark Arts due to their skill and competence with muggle weaponry. The only reason they supported Voldemort was the fact he had promised similar to the giants: no more magical persecution and hunting, and unlimited feeding on the muggle population. Harry didn't know much about the leadership of the various vampires covens, but he did know that there was a central commission that was in charge of all vampires world wide, and that in the last war they had supported Voldemort before pulling support when he had been defeated that first time around Halloween.
Harry's musing came to an end as he heard footsteps, a lot of them approaching. Pretty sure that he was the one they were coming for, if that was what they were doing in the first, he started curling up into a ball for the kicking that was going to follow. Harry brought his knees up to his chest, listened as the steps echoed off of the concrete floor. The jingle of keys on a ring, followed by the sound of a lock turning somewhere in front of him, and then the steps approaching, the sound almost deafening in his ears. Harry tightened himself up, and tried to clear his mind, not knowing if they were going to start probing his mind.
The kicking started, and Harry had to admit these guys were good. In short order, he was out of breath and moaning as a couple of pairs of booted feet slammed into his chest, abdomen, and torso. Another landed between his shoulder blades, close to his head, and Harry once again saw stars. No command was given as to when it would stop, but it did, and Harry felt something, a cudgel of some sort, brought under his head and brought back, choking him as a boot pressed down on his spine. Two pairs of hands grabbed his arms, and raised him so that his feet were dragging on the ground. The cudgel was taken away, the boot removed, and Harry managed to breathe once again.
Again silence as they dragged him to who knew where. Harry felt a couple of turns, and moaned as he felt his feet hurt from the dragging. Soon, he felt a cold wind on his person, and cobblestones beneath him. They dragged him farther, as Harry tried to think, to strategize, but found the shock and pain from the beating had dulled his senses. All he wanted to do was make it through the next few seconds, and nothing else mattered.
The people on his sides stopped, and had him kneel on the ground. Now Harry felt a change as this was a soft soil at his knees, and Harry sensed there was a hole of some sort in front of him. Which could only mean one thing and that wasn't good.
His wrists still hand-cuffed behind him, someone removed his hood, and Harry winced as his eyes received daylight. Rather, it wasn't real daylight, but light of dawn approaching coupled with a series of floodlights pointed right at his face. Harry blinked his eyes rapidly, and took in his surroundings: castle walls, some snow on the uppermost parapets, the gray sunlight as it shone through clouds and over mountains…And a line of hard-faced men in olive uniforms and rifles staring at him impassively, with a very shallow grave dug in the soil before him, neat piles of cobblestones to the sides to cover it when the time came. There two others, older looking men who were watching him closely, only without weapons.
One of the two, one in a uniform like an officer's raised his hand. The line raised their weapons, and rounds were placed in the chambers. Harry knew then and there that there wasn't going to be a prisoner swap, that he was a dead man, which he wasn't going to see the face of his…
Don't even think of her, do you want this to happen to her as well! Harry thought as he stared at the line before him, not knowing if they were going to examine his thoughts at will. Defiance and hatred arose in him, and he hawked and spat a glob of phlegm towards them. Straightening his back, he was determined that if he were to die, then he was going to ensure that they were going remember that he died a man, with staring at death without fright.
Safeties were clicked off, and Harry continued to stare. The other unarmed man, one with a harsh, lean face and lantern jaw who looked as though he were in his early forties, stared at him before looking over to the younger looking blood sucker, and nodded. The officer smiled over at Harry, and Harry started praying, something which he only did when something like this happened. After all, God was a very busy man, and one saved praying for times like this…
Dear Lord, my Father in heaven, forgive me my sins, and welcome a wretch like me into your Kingdom…
The arm went down, and Harry saw the rifles flash, and wondered if it was going to hurt too badly. A second passed, nothing, followed by another second and still nothing. The line dropped their rifles to their sides, and marched off with the officer leading them, still silently. Harry saw the remaining vampire move towards him as he heard footsteps behind him. The vampire stopped before the hole, and crouched down. The face was hard-cut, one that could be mistaken for lacking intelligence as its Germanic features were as noticeable as the eyes were visible with a burning blue fire. For some reason, Harry had the strange feeling he had seen the man before.
His eyes bored into Harry's, and he shook his head slowly. "Such arrogant defiance, a pity it can't be used to more useful ends…" The eyes flickered to something behind him, and everything went black.
* * *
Blinding light and laughing as Harry's eyes swam. He shivered and realized he was soaking wet. Something slammed into his face, and his glasses flew to who knew where. Harry almost laughed at the impossibility of the gesture, for his glasses had survived so much and only now broke. More laughter and Harry tried squinting his eyes, to get focus. A metal bucket was near his feet, which explained the wetness. The large dent in it explained what he had been smacked with.
Somebody grabbed his hair, and pulled back. Harry cried out as he felt the roots of his hair being yanked out. The light source became visible, as it was a very strong wattage white light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Harry winced as the light struck his eyes, and noticed that somebody was just behind the light, holding his hair. A harsh word, Russian, and his head were pushed forward, and Harry found himself face to face with a rat-faced vampire, wearing the uniform Harry had seen before.
It was then Harry started taking in his surroundings. Dark
stone walls, a wooden chair with armrests to which he was strapped to, and the
bastard at a very cheap, dilapidated looking desk with writing materials before
him.
The questions began, the interrogator speaking English with a heavy Russian
accent at rapid speed.
Name
Position
Age
What are the defenses of Hogwarts?
Who are your officers?
Harry didn't answer, only stared at the ground, playing the gray man, the broken one who didn't know anything. Part of him was telling him that he was a dead man, that if he was going to play the game to the end, it was going to be him playing the game, not the game playing him. Then there was the other part, with a voice much like Alex's, telling him to hold tight, to stay alive for he and the Order, every force available would be used to rescue him or anybody else in his situation….At least, that was what he had been lead to believe.
The vampire sighed, and made a motion with his hand. Harry felt something smack into his stomach, and double him over in his chair. That same something smacked the base of his skull, this time with only enough force to snap his head back. His eyes started blurring with tears, as the blows had a sting burning sensation to them. Focusing his eyes, he saw that Rat-face was smiling, and asked him the same questions, in rapid order again. Harry blinked, and shook his head.
This time Harry saw what the weapon was, as it was jabbed quickly into his left side. A wooden nightstick, with a black rubber coating to reduce too much damage on the subject and damage to the stick. Standard issue for secret police interrogation rooms the world over, bargain prices now that the South Africans were out of that industry.
More questions, and this time the man didn't even give him a chance to answer. Whoever was working on him lit into Harry with a fury. A kick knocked his chair to the side, and Harry saw stars as his head bounced off the floor. Kicks to the stomach, chest, and groin. The pain was washing into him in wave after wave, and more was to come. Harry saw brown, hobnailed boots, and knew that he probably had some internal damage.
The baton started to be brought down his back, neck, and shoulders. Harry tucked his face into his chest, and hoped he could spare his face some damage. Body shaking, Harry started moaning and crying alternately as the pain came to him. Doc had once shared with him an American Marine Corps saying that pain was weakness leaving the body; Harry knew now that it was bullshit, it was only the destruction of the body brick by bloody brick of flesh.
Whoever was lighting into him stopped, and Harry saw out of his vision several pairs of boots, different boots, step into the light and grab either side of him. A door clanged, and he was dragged, chair and all down a hallway, cobblestones and concrete, dimly lit with overhead lights, almost penny budget movie like in similarity to old photos of Gestapo interrogation centers. Only thing was, those shitty movies were based on truth….
Another room, another desk, another bastard in the Olive green uniform. This one was porcine, and seemed to have an incessant grin on his face as he asked Harry the same questions as had been asked before. Harry had slowly figured out the tactics being used against him of abuse, constant interrogation, and no time to establish friendly rappaport with the opposition. With physical methods being employed, there wasn't a need for them to be nice to him when time would break him down or kill him, either of which was acceptable to them.
The only difference was that Porky here had his own methods of physical persuasion, and Porky did his dirty work himself. Methods that included using his arms as an ashtray for the rollups he smoked, and using him as a slapping dummy. Being slapped was bad news, especially if it involved kidskin gloves packed with chunks of lead. Harry felt his teeth rock with the vibrations of the impacts, and the blood flow out of his nose and lips as they were split open. More blood flew as vamp took an inkwell, and slammed it into an eye. The skin around his left eye swell, and Harry knew it was going to close shut for a bit.
This time the inkwell was slammed into his throat, and Harry coughed and spluttered. Part of him feared that Porky would kill him; another part hoped for it. Harry tried to banish that thought, but instead only found blackness as Porky, ever grinning, booted him into the face.
* * *
The darkness changed to light with a flash, and Harry sprang up, only to be brought backwards into a chair by a pair of strong hands. His hands were still strapped into the armrests, and the only thing that had changed was that he could see out of one, his right, eye. The crowd had gotten bigger as bespectled fellow with a syringe stepped away from him. Harry squinted, and saw that the old man from the courtyard, and a blonde woman with a French braid were staring at him. The old man spoke in Russian to Specs, and Specs left, leaving Harry, the woman, the man, and two other men. All except for the man and including the woman were still in Russian uniform.
Harry was breathing hard, his head pounding. There was no telling what they had shot into him, but Harry guessed it was probably caffeine to jolt him awake. Without his glasses, Harry could make out only general details, but even he could see that all that was going on was a mind game of people as they stared at him, and he stared back. Harry noticed that the desk this time had no writing utensils, only small instruments of metal. To the side of the room a grill like structure glowed with fire while next to it was an assembly of wires, cables, and two car batteries. Harry didn't need to be Stephen Hawking to figure out what was in store for him.
Old man stepped forward, a smile that reminded Harry of Snape on his worst of days. Trying not to, but failing, he shuddered.
The man stepped closer to him, and Harry saw that there was something in his hands. With one hand, he took Harry's head, and moved it so that he faced up. The other hand put the something on Harry's face. It was his glasses, and Harry shuddered more for the man's hands were cold, like ice.
Blinking his eyes, Harry got a good look at the man this time, and it struck him then as to whom it was. Harry had read through the old intelligence files from the last war. This vampire's folder had been four inches thick, and covered a period from the early 1900s, through the World Wars and Grindewald's time, to the present. He was a man who had made his mark on both the muggle spy world, and the wizard world. He had trained the agents of the Soviet Union that had recruited traitors such as Burgess, McLean, Philby, Cairncross, and Blunt before he had returned to his native Germany, a vampire. In World War II, he had been a shadowy power figure of the Gestapo, a brilliant detective to this day wanted by the Israelis and others. His part had been to liaison between Grindewald and the Nazis, and when the war was over he had disappeared like a ghost.
In the 1970s, he had returned again, his name showing up as Voldemort's spymaster, the man who had conducted the operations of terror. Unlike the Death Eaters whose actions were mindless, senseless acts of violence, his were the cold, calculated acts that nearly brought the Ministry of Magic to his knees. On his orders old Minister Appscott, his deputy, the head of Magical Law Enforcement, the Auror's Division, and three Hit Wizard captains had been killed in a brazen daylight attack by a pack of Romanian werewolves in Diagon Alley that initiated the start of the first war. It had been through his machination the Night of the Vespers had occurred, in which fifty various ranking wizards and witches who opposed Voldemort were snuffed out in the space of a single evening. Through him had been through his dealings that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Rockwood were placed in high-level positions throughout the Ministry, and it had been through him that Wormtail had been turned, and ultimately used to orphan Harry, and temporarily defeat Voldemort.
Since then he had vanished, with only a few shadowy clues that Harry had never been fully informed of making up his trail. From what little he had gleaned from Alex, there had been a period when it looked as though he was going to defect, and every little rotten apple in the Ministry would be revealed. That hadn't happened, he had disappeared, and two very good Aurors were dead or close enough to it. Judging by the fact he was still alive as a vampire could be, it was obvious that Voldemort had found a use for him, and there was no telling what schemes and plots were being cooked up within his mind.
Harry stared at him, grimaced, and greeted him as civilly as could be expected. "Good day, Professor. Or should I call you your name of Joachim Mueller?" Mueller had earned the sobriquet of Professor for his work with the Bolsheviks and Nazis, how an entire generation of muggle spymasters and Dark wizards had learned the tricks of the trade, of the Great Game, through his very capable hands.
Mueller leaned his head back and laughed, a full laugh that sounded as though he had been at the schnapps too long. He looked over at Harry, and smiled. "Professor, Joachim, whatever you care to. Do you mind if I call you Harry?"
"Yes"
"In that case, Harry, too bad." The tone was still jocular, but Harry was nobody's fool. Business was to be taken care of, and now. Mueller turned his head towards the woman and spoke to her in English. "Do you wish to be in charge of the interrogation, Elizabeth?"
She shook her head, and Mueller rose. He looked down at Harry, and smiled. Again, Harry shuddered.
"Well, Mister Potter, you are doubtless aware of how valuable of a source of information you are. Information I and my associates are quite interested in, so if you will happily cooperate…"
"And if I don't?"
"As part of you job, yes? In that case, you will not appreciate what I will be forced to do. So I strongly suggest that you…"
"Fuck off, blood-sucker."
Mueller's eyes flared, and he jerked his head. Elizabeth moved forward, and casually slapped Harry. Harry's head whip-lashed, and his eyes blurred. The woman had hit, and hit very hard indeed. He screamed then, as she leaned over, and punched him in the groin. The pain was blinding, and he gasped for air as he tried to curl up into the fetal position.
He took a look up, and saw that Mueller was staring down at him, his face expressionless. Mueller turned to Elizabeth, and spoke to her, this time in Russian. Both of them left, and a burly figure with a Slavic face and a foul cigarette entered the room via the door to the side. Harry hadn't seen much out of the door, only another bright light in a dim hallway. The Slav went to him, smiled, and removed his glasses. Slav then punched him in the jaw. Harry flew backwards, his head bouncing off the floor. Trying to curl up, to get away from the pain, Harry knew it was going to be a long day, and numbly wondered just how long he was going to last.
What followed next was a blur of images and pain. All sense of time vanished. The Slav and the two guards lit into him with clubs and boots. Harry remembered throwing up, one of the guards grabbing him by the hair and shoving his face into the vomit. A hood of some sort was put over his head, and tightened. He could barely breathe, and the smell of his vomit was driving him up the wall.
One of them put his knee to Harry's back as he lay down on the ground, his arms pulled behind him painfully. A click, and Harry heard the sound of cloth tearing, and within short notice he felt the cold stone of the floor against his skin. Someone yanked off his shoes, and Harry breathed a little easier, as the wet wool and leather of his socks and shoes had been irritating.
That didn't last too long as they soon pulled him to his feet, and in bad English had him stand on his fingertips and toes, spread-eagle, against the wall. Harry had heard of this trick, and he figured out real fast that they were using a combination of interrogation techniques, and torture against him. Whatever was going to happen, they obviously wanted him broken down. Harry's guess was that they wanted to mine him of information, and then, as a bonus, use him broken down and pitiful as a propaganda piece when outright warfare broke out. Of course, for all he knew, this secret war could just as easily see him vanish without a trace, the way Alex had made the vampires vanish…
After a few seconds, Harry felt himself start to hurt, the pressure on his extremities starting to be unbearable. He relaxed, and discovered that to be a mistake when he felt the clubs start smacking into him again. Back, stomach, kidneys, chest, thighs, the only thing they didn't work over was his head. The hands grabbed him, slammed him into a chair, a different one that left his back exposed, and put the restraints back on him. Harry breathed a little easier as the hood was removed from him, and heard the Slav start talking to him in rapid-fire Russian. It didn't take him too long to figure out he was being asked questions, and that since he wasn't answering, the Slav wasn't too happy.
Harry squinted his eyes, and saw Slave bring up something from the grill. When he recognized the poker in his hands, Harry cringed. Through his blurry vision, he saw the Slav smile, and laugh. Without a moment of hesitation, he casually took the poker, and slid it down Harry's back. Harry screamed as his skin was cooked with the red-hot metal. More pain, more laughter as again and again a poker was drawn across his torso. It stopped for a minute, and Harry shuddered with each breath he took. Tears streaked down his face, the pain most intense.
He looked up, and saw the Slav holding up shiny, metallic, and sharp instruments. They looked like surgical tool, and Harry moaned. One of the men behind him grabbed him in a headlock, and the Slave moved forward. Harry screamed again and again as the front of his chest was sliced, the nails on his fingers and toes removed. Vaguely, through the pain, Harry felt trickles of blood go down his body, and pool on the stone floor.
The Slav said something else, and this time Harry, half-crazed with pain, looked the interrogator in the eyes, and yelled at the top of his lungs the Russian word for boy-fucker, the only insult he knew of. Bad move, as the Russian dropped the instruments, and punched him in the stomach. Harry coughed, and hung his head, wondering if that was the worst that was going to be done to him.
The Slave grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him over the desk. He barked some commands to his minions. One loosened his bonds, and held his hands on the table. The other one kicked his legs apart and made a move to keep them spread….
Ah fuck, Harry thought to himself tiredly. The Russian yelled something at about a billion decibels in his ear. Harry made out the words, 'up' and 'asshole'. Judging by the way he waving around the nightstick he carried it was obvious what his intentions were. While he hadn't been told that being sodomized with a nightstick was a possibility, it was obvious that was going to happen and all he could do was…
Watch as a blur surrounded the vampire, and bright crimson blood splatter everywhere was his throat was opened. Harry slid off of the desk as the guards to either side let go of him. Harry shook his head, and blinked away a little of the blood. The lady with Mueller, Elizabeth, was standing before him, the body of the other vampire on the ground. Both guards had overcome their shock, and were staring down at him, malevolence barely concealed. Elizabeth knelt next to him, and smiled darkly as she placed a fingernail on his flesh, and ran it down over his torso, and lower.
Harry shivered, and she smiled. "Do you know who I am, Harry?" She asked unconcernedly. Harry shook his head, and continued to watch the woman, afraid of just what she was going to do as she had a very sensitive portion of his anatomy between to very long and very pointed fingernails. The woman smiled, Harry shuddered, and then screamed as she pressed her nails into flesh deep enough to draw blood. Her laughter was maniacal and haunting as the shock and pains of earlier knocked him unconscious.
* * *
Harry's eyes opened, and looked around him for a dinosaur. Besides the caffeine, they injected him with a stimulant of some sort (cocaine probably) and then some LSD. This had happened after the bitch vampire had left her mark on his cock and balls, and the interrogation had gotten really rough. Beatings, burning, branding, lashings, every trick that could damage the body and break the mind had been used against him. Multiple interrogations, sleep deprivation, every trick short of magic was being used against him as the endless questions were being asked of Hogwarts's defenses, and just how Dumbledore knew so much of their activities. No food, two cups of water that were taken away as soon as he emptied them, and the cell he was in was six feet long, six feet wide, and seven feet high. No bathroom facilities were provided, and Harry could see his breath as he breathed.
He was naked, dirty, and living in his own filth, yet he still clung to life. Every thought he had was filled with hope, and he dared to occasionally think of Ginny, as the only things he had left to live for were her, and his other friends. Ron and Hermione, Neville and Katrina, Luna, Doc, Alex, Linda, the men of Dick Longbottom's platoon who were soldiering away in the Balkans. They wouldn't want him to give up on life, and based on the fact they hadn't used any magic on him at all, there just might be a chance at getting out of this mess.
The door clanged open, and three burly guards rushed in. Harry curled up, and covered his face as they mercilessly rained blow upon blow upon his body. After who knew how long he had been in their custody (they had succeeded earlier on of making him lose track of time), Harry had learned a little bit on how to prevent the blows from doing too much damage. It was over within a moment as they fastened the sandbag hood over his face, flex-cuffed his hands, and dragged him out of his cell. Harry could feel his feet being dragged on the cobblestone floor, the stones slick with grime and moisture in slurry like mix. Was he underground? Probably considering how he was being interrogated as there had been no letup, and the blood suckers were still vulnerable to daylight. More so now perhaps as he hadn't seen any magic being used, almost as though it were harmful to use magic…
Harry's thoughts on this ended as they stopped, opened a door, and continued dragging. Another stop as they cut the flex-cuff, sat him in a chair, and the click of handcuffs as his hands were placed in them. Harry couldn't see beyond the black cloth, but he was able to make out light as a very high watt light bulb was shined in his face. Footsteps were around him, and Harry heard the voice of Mueller, with his cool, chiseled Germanic accent which reminded him of the good German from an old Mick Caine football movie.
"Here is the goods as agreed upon. Satisfied?"
"Our deal was for him to be undamaged, vampire." Harry's ears perked up, as it was the drawl of an enemy with whom he had a very big score to settle. Lucius Malfoy.
"No, that wasn't part of the deal, and as I recall I was told that when I accepted this contract I was given carte blanche authority as to just how far my measures would go. There are other operations in motion of which Mister Potter can make a very valuable contribution to…"
"To what? Your search for the traitor in our mist, infiltrating their ridiculous Order, that damn…"
"Quiet Malfoy, have you never heard of secrecy?" Mueller sounded utterly emotionless, and that was chilling to Harry.
Lucius Malfoy, though, wasn't in the least. His sneer was very obvious in his voice as he replied, "Do you honestly believe, vampire, that he is going to live long enough to tell others of who would be able to make use of that information? No, Mister Potter, here is done for. However, now that you mention it…" A slight pause, and for some reason Harry had the feeling Malfoy was smiling.
"Remove the hood, I have to confirm that this is the genuine article, and not some muggle you had doctored…"
"What, didn't your son not tell you of the fact I lost twenty-eight good men in a very obvious skirmish outside of the school?"
"My son is rather indisposed at the moment. Now, the hood if you will."
Harry felt the cloth pull away, and blinked his eyes as they came into contact with the harsh light. Squinting, he felt some pointed under his chin push it up, and then brush against his head. Another minute of blinking found himself staring into the face of Lucius Malfoy, wearing a muggle business suit of all things and smiling down at him with an expression of cruel delight. "Good day, Mister Potter. Perhaps you remember me from the occasion several years ago when you stole a very valuable house-elf from me." Malfoy brought the cane back, and smacked it across Harry's face. Going with it, Harry didn't feel much, though after a second he could feel something drip, and knew that skin had been broken somewhere and he was bleeding.
Mueller laughed, and asked in a sarcastic tone, "And you said I was to turn him in undamaged."
Unabashed, Malfoy asked, "Or how about that occasion during the summer in that nice den of vice you frequented?" He didn't strike, only jab, which straightened Harry's spine out from the pain to the back of his shoulders. Expressionless, Harry looked right in the eyes of Malfoy, and saw that he was enjoying himself. Mueller and Elizabeth were in the background with the guards, watching him and Malfoy the way people watched a very boring movie.
Stopping the circling he had been doing, Lucius looked down into Harry, and leered, "Did my son tell you your woman was moaning and crying for you when she died? That she died with…"
"Your cock in her? Your son told me that, but you know what Alice told me back in the summer?" Harry leered back, his face skull-like, and continued, "For a man who enjoyed was so damn masculine as to treat women like shit, you have a sorry cock shorter then my little finger. Shit," He hawked, spat at Malfoy's feet causing him to jump back. By now he didn't care what happened to him, as before he went Harry was determined to at least embarrass someone shit like Malfoy. "My goddamn dick is longer at half mast and freezing then yours is at full tilt. Say, your wife say she pregnant?" Malfoy looked dumbfounded at the sudden turn of the question, but Harry's leer only got wider. "Your beloved, dutiful wife apparently likes it up the ass, with a refreshing treat that she loves nothing better then a man or a baker's fucking dozen to shoot a few loads into her cunny. And all for a knut or two at…"
"CRUCIO!!!" Malfoy had turned purple, and in a single, smooth motion drawn his wand out of his cane, and threw the curse at him. Harry felt a pain he had never felt before, worse then all the beatings and torture he had just gone through, and screamed. Trying to tell himself the pain was all in his mind, that it was possible for him to block it out, he tried to concentrate on a white wall, to throw up a shield charm, but he was failing. Mostly, he was reveling in the curse as he started to cry out in pain, for he hoped that somebody would be able to see the signature of such a malevolent force of magic being used. If someone noticed, then it would be possible for them to find him, and ultimately rescue him. Of course, it could just as easily result in his death, and at the rate things had been going, that was just as acceptable.
"STOP!" This was the harsh command of Mueller, and to Harry's amazement the pain stopped. Harry hazarded a look at Mueller, and in his blurry vision was able to make out the salient fact that Mueller was none too pleased with Malfoy. "Lucius, I believe I've already told you just why we don't use magic." Malfoy, still purple, glared over at Mueller, and sneered, "Honestly, no one will come for him. Do you fully realize just how difficult it was for me to travel over here?"
"Yes, and I intend to keep it that way. Now, are you finished examining the goods?"
Malfoy nodded, Mueller made a motion with his hand, and the hood was placed over Harry's head again. Within a short while, he was dragged back to his cell, with his thoughts, pain, and the slight kernel of despair that was forming within him. For the sight of Malfoy had driven it home to him that he was going to end up like most of the men who had fought and died in the Cold War: dead in a shallow grave, with no one to know what ever became of him.
* * *
The traffic was loud enough to hear through the oak walls of the small pub. It was a Welsh pub, and Celtic music played in the background. The song was a haunting melody, strangely enchanting and beautiful. Outside, the streets of London were bustling due to the proximity to Piccadilly Circus, but on the side-streets it was largely pedestrian traffic. Inside the pub, near the back room, a teenage waitress working after school carried a platter of beers in glass mugs, working the rounds. Making her way to the rear of the pub, she spotted the man in the shadows, a cigarillo glowing in the gloom. The man had ordered only a cup of tea, nothing more. He had been there all evening, alone and with his back to the wall. While he had been friendly enough when she had gotten him his tea, he had made no move to flirt with her or do any of the other things most customers did, which was a pity since he was handsome in a mysterious way.
"You want anything, now?" She had taken a detour from her servings, and stopped in front of his booth. He looked like Pierce Brosnan with his dark hair, his features what an American Black Irish. His eyes were of two different colors, and on the table was his tin case of cigarillos, a Zippo lighter painted flat black. Next to him was a small attaché case, a cane, and a bowler.
The man smiled up at her, and shook his head. "Thank you, but no."
"Want any company, no, thank you again. Waiting for an old colleague to drop something off for me. Should be in about…Now."
Just then the waitress heard the door open, and turned to see a silver-haired gentleman with an air of supreme arrogance enter the pub. She looked down as she felt a pound note slip into her hand. The man was smiling, "That's for the service, which my friend won't be partaking of. Why don't you take a break, have a drink on me?" It was a twenty pound note, and the woman decided that they were up to no good, but she did need the money…
She left, and the silver-haired man sat down at the booth. Black Irish nodded, and set his case on the table. "Lets not waste time. I have what you want, do you have what I want?" Silver nodded, and removed a thick roll of parchment from the inside of his trench coat. Sliding it over to Irish, he asked, "I take it you were able to track my magical signature?"
"Yes, and the spell you cast. I take it that was necessary?"
"You said a spell, just not what type." Silver was smiling contemptously. Irish grinned back, and slid over the case as his other hand grabbed the parchment. Unrolling it, his eyes scanned the material before rolling it up, and putting it back into his pocket. Silver opened the case, and slammed it shut after a moment. Getting up to leave, he stopped to look down at Irish. "I never expected your kind to something like this." Irish dragged on his smoke, and blew the smoke towards Silver. "First time for everything, and besides, the muggles have a saying which you should heed."
"Which is?"
"There is nothing more dangerous, then a man with nothing left to lose." Silver snorted, turned, and was walking to the door, when Irish called out, "Malfoy!" Lucius Malfoy turned, and shot a look of supreme loathing towards Irish. Irish smiled, and raised his cup of tea, "Give Draco my regards in about forty-eight hours, as that is how long it will take to wear off. Unless you do something rash, in which the effects are rather more…permanent."
Malfoy scowled, exited, and slammed the door as he the left. Irish's dark green swiveled, and he continued to smoke his cigarillo, at peace with all that he had done, and what was going to follow.