A Most Unlikely Story – Part 5
Disclaimer: All names and places belong to J.K. Rowling and I am in no way receiving any money for this story. This is for the sole amusement of slash fans. This is rated NC-17 and as such should not be taken lightly. You have been warned. If I forgot to disclaim anything else, I am sorry. This is my first slash in writing.
Warning: Harry/Draco; pain, lots and lots of pain
A/N: Starting where we left off, because I don't want hate mail LOL! On second thought . . .
In the Gryffindor common room
'Where's Harry?' Ron asked Hermione. She shrugged, but smiled slightly, letting Ron know where she thought he was. Ron simply rolled his eyes and shivered. 'Thanks, Hermione,' he said sarcastically.
'Not a problem,' she replied, doing her best to keep an innocent tone and expression, the last of which faltered in matter of seconds. 'Though, if he wants my help, he'll know to get back early enough. Let's you and I start on it. Get your books,' she ordered, going upstairs to retrieve her own.
'Sure,' Ron replied, dragging his feet on the steps up to the boys' dormitory. He mentally reminded himself to beat Harry to death for not providing him a way out. I promised Harry a chess game . . . or Gobstones . . . Harry was going to help me on my flying technique. But no, bloody bastard gets it easy.
If Ron had actually known what was going on, he would have had to retract that last statement.
As he picked up his bag, he heard a scream coming from outside his dorm. Dropping the burden, he rushed out of the door and down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste to find out what had happened. The many students in the common room were frozen in horror; some snapped out of their daze to point up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. Some of the girls were already on their way up. Ron was incredulous at the guys who just sat there or stood near the staircase. One of them even had the audacity to pull him away from running up the stairs. He recognised the person as Dean and tried to shove him off.
Dean struggled a bit with the furious Ron, whispering 'The staircase is charmed, mate, only girls can use it,' in his ear. Ron seemed to stop struggling, but he was still breathing heavily, his body trying to compensate for the amount of energy spent in such a short span of time.
Up in the girl's dormitory, however, Lavender and Parvati were comforting a much shaken Hermione. She was crying and shaking her head when as they kept asking her what was wrong. Ginny and some of the other younger girls were standing around, worried for their fellow Gryffindor. When she had calmed down enough, she mumbled something about needing to see Ron and headed aimlessly for the door, holding something in her hand. The girls tried to catch a peek but none of them could make out what it was entirely.
Ron was literally bouncing on his toes when Hermione finally appeared at the top of the stairs. It was obvious she'd been crying by the puffiness of her eyes. She walked down the steps as though she were unsure whether to go fast or slow. When she was finally within grabbing distance, Ron almost dragged her out of the common room. When the portrait had swung closed, Ron asked her what was wrong.
She handed him the glass oval and Ron tentatively looked at it. His confused, hesitant look quickly turned into a shocked, scared one, and Hermione just hugged him close, crying. Ron shoved the glass into his robe pocket and hugged her back.
'We have to go to . . .'
'. . . to Dumbledore,' Hermione nodded, finishing her friend's thought.
Where we left off (happy now?)
Lucius reached his hand out and grabbed Harry, before flinging him across the dusty, dirty floor. Half a dozen Death Eaters were standing around, wands pointing at Harry. 'There's no where to run, Harry.' The cold silk of his voice washed over Harry and Harry's breath caught in his chest. He tried to turn around and face him, meeting the sharp strike of a black cane, and he twisted once more, spitting his blood on wooden planks.
A rough jolt and a nauseating sensation later, Harry was kneeling in the same spot he had been two years ago. Looking around the graveyard, he noticed the statue right in front of him.
'Harry,' whispered the voice of malice.
He could feel his insides shaking, the shiver slither up his spine, tingling the hairs on his nape, and he turned. His green eyes met red, and Harry took a step back. The statue activated as soon as Harry's foot landed on the stony base. The scythe snapped him back and his head hit the unyielding façade of the hooded sculpture. He blinked away the encroaching blackness, but almost wished it hadn't obeyed him.
'Let's play a little game, ssshall we?' Voldemort was trying him, testing him, teasing him. Harry concentrated on his thoughts as hard as possible, wanting to block whatever Voldemort was saying. Try as he may he still heard the next six words. 'My personal favourite . . . torture the victim.'
The Death Eaters stood in a circle. Harry noticed the younger Malfoy standing by the elder. Like father, like son. They all had their masks off and were smiling to one another. Torturing was their greatest love. They made no move, however; they knew to let Voldemort have the first strike.
'Crucio!'
Harry writhed in pain, unable to move freely, the long pole of the scythe digging into his throat, preventing him from having a steady supply of air. His internals were burning and his limbs were twitching involuntarily. His legs gave out; the only thing supporting his weight was the cold stone of the statue's scythe digging into throat. His lungs were on fire, desperately seeking oxygen as the only thing Harry could do was scream. Scream . . . and tremble.
The curse lifted, and Harry fought to breathe in the welcome air. He slowly, painfully, lifted his arms and gripped the shaft of the scythe. At least it would give him something to which he could transfer some pain. 'A sssmall sssampling, Harry. You will find I can be merccciful.' Harry then realised he was learning a whole new meaning for pain. He was going to end up going insane from the torture techniques.
'Cultrihallucinatus!'
It felt as though someone had split his stomach open with a searing-hot blade in slow motion. Going centimetre by centimetre, the knife was burning him mercilessly. Despite his objection, his eyes were watering: from pain, from frustration, from deception, from suffering. His screams of protest echoed throughout the graveyard. His lungs had run out of air and the knife was only halfway finished with its work of devilry. His arms were shaking, tightened in pain, trying to maintain his weight, his legs having given up long ago. His screams were silent now, if one could call them screams. As soon as any air rushed into his lungs, it was expelled in groans or held in as shock washed over him. Before his mind slipped into a relief from the pain, the knife was pulled out; all that was left were the sensations of agony. Again, he gulped in as much air as possible. His diaphragm seemed to be in working condition; then he remembered the "hallucinatus" at the end of the curse.
He groaned; Voldemort was sure to know an arsenal of spells, especially pain curses. As the man glared at him through his slit-like eyes, Harry thought he saw a smile twist its way into existence on the waxy countenance.
'Harry . . .' the cold voice called. 'Do you know what I'm going to do next?'
Harry gave a sigh and shrugged. He could give the loon a suggestion. 'Go to hell?'
The sound of high laughter grated throughout Harry's body and he made a mental note to never cause Voldemort to laugh again. Releasing the discordant noise with a shiver, he continued. 'Damn, apparently not.'
'Oh, Harry. If only you would join me, you and I could do great thingsss together. Our wandsss are brothersss, you mussst know that. If only they could be united.'
'My reply to you is the same as when I was in first year. You can take your wand and shove it up your arse.'
The instant rage surfaced and Harry felt wonderfully-brief pain from the Cruciatus. 'That'sss where your insssultsss will get you, Harry Potter.'
(I'm getting tired of writing the three "sss"'s every time the sound is made, so if you could just elongate the sound for me whenever it pops up, it would be much appreciated.)
'So, where will my praises get me?' Harry thought it best to stall him as long as possible, trying to come up with any type of plan. A slight chuckle and Voldemort trained his wand on Harry. He breathed in, deeply and quickly, bracing himself for another curse.
'You can't deceive me, Harry,' Voldemort said, his voice silky, low, and every bit intimidating.
Harry had had his family ripped from him when he was one. He had seen a Hogwarts student been stripped of life by the man standing in front him and his godfather stricken by the unforgivable curse by the solitary woman in the crowd around him. He had passed through many obstacles only to face Voldemort himself, fought a basilisk only to be poisoned by its venom, driven off scores of dementors and fell victim to their chilling aura, battled the most feared wizard of the world twice. The first time, Harry had been here, in the graveyard, in constant confusion, torn by his want to flee, but left with no choice but to fight. The second time, Voldemort had invaded his very mind; he had forced him to relive the most terrible events of his life. Yet, somehow, he had managed to push through all the pain. But one thing had always stuck with him. Harry Potter realised that no matter how much he hated the bastard that had caused him and others so much grief, he feared him.
(Monte Cristo moment) 'Do your worst!' Harry said, knowing Voldemort would be sure to take him up on the challenge.
'I shall . . . in good time. Lucius!' Voldemort called.
The man stepped forward and bowed to the Dark Lord. 'Yes, my lord.'
'Why don't you show our guest our finest appetisers?'
'I live only to serve, master,' Lucius said, his head bent the while he stood up. He turned it upward to look into Harry's eyes. An evil smile twisted its way onto the elder Malfoy's countenance.
'Locomotor Mortis,' Lucius shouted, his wand directed at Harry.
Harry's legs snapped together and refused to move. He wondered why Lucius would have chosen such a simple spell for torture. He soon realised it had been just a precautionary tactic.
'Acicaduceus.' Lucius walked up to Harry and, pressing the tip of his wand against the fabric of his shirt, slit the material from collar to hem with relative ease. He backed away and made a slashing motion with his wand. Harry felt his chest being sliced open and he let out a yell of pain.
'Episkey,' was said and the wound healed over, again leaving a memory of the pain, but also blood, streaking down his stomach from the now-closed wound. Lucius continued in this manner: slashing at various parts of his body, healing the wounds moments later. The simple clean cuts were interspersed with intricate movements that created rune-like shapes in his flesh. There were some instances where he Accio-ed the fleshy cut-out, ripping it away.
Harry couldn't even remember when it had started, but he felt relief when Voldemort whispered 'Enough.' His relief was short-lived when he called forth the next Death Eater, the only female.
If there was one person that deserved the same amount of rage from Harry as he gave Voldemort, it was her. She had killed his godfather, helped torture his friend's parents into insanity, and practically enjoyed pain.
When she cast her first Crucio, Harry almost wished that Voldemort had been the caster. The pain was overwhelming, and he felt his mind slipping from its current state of consciousness. He was twitching involuntarily even after the curse had been lifted from him. The next was double the intensity, and Harry could swear every fibre of his being was on fire, burning in the flames of hell itself. His eyes watered from the pain, and the sweat was making them blurry and equally fiery. She kept it on him for what felt like fifteen minutes, but was in fact a fifth of that. There was no scream left in him; he was just shaking now. After the third Cruciatus, Harry stopped all twitching, all groaning; he just hung there, his hands giving the only sign he was even alive; the muscles of his hands were constricted around the scythe's pole in an impossible grip. His eyes were no longer focussed on anything; eerily, they just stared ahead.
'Thank you, Bellatrix, that will be all,' Voldemort said. The woman bowed and went back to stand in the circle.