Betrayal of the Black

thirty-one

It was not the torture that had her throats ripped to shreds from screams that added more torment, but the thoughts of home.

It was the ghost touch of Theo's arms around her. It was the whisper of Blaise's jokes during late nights. It was the murmur of fruitless arguing with Draco. It was the glint of Pansy's eyes when she was feeling pure glee.

It was those reminders; the times she swore she felt Theo's touch against her skin; the times she heard Pansy's laugh in the quiet of the room, that made her feel as if she was going insane. It reminded her that she and Draco hadn't spent enough time together this year; that she hadn't joked with Blaise as much as she should have lately.

It was the moments like now, when thoughts of them plagued her the most. She'd fallen into unconsciousness again when Moody hadn't decided to relent his attack. She awoke, again, to Remus using a damp cloth to clean off the tear tracks on her face. He raised a glass of water to her lips, and she gulped it down, soothing the dryness of her throat but agitating the soreness.

"Tell Moody," she rasped, "that he's wasting his time. They'll be here soon."

"Are you that valuable to him?" he questioned quietly.

"No," she paused this time, "but I am to my family."

Remus's face shuttered. It was the only control that she had here; his guilt.

She'd gone over every scenario that might have happened the day she was kidnapped. She knew—hoped—that they hadn't kidnapped Pansy. If they had, they'd surely have held it over her head. The thought of Pansy going through what she was had made her throw up, the stain on the cement floor to prove it. If they had her, Celestia would have told them anything.

But they didn't have her, which led her to believe that she made it to the Leaky Cauldron and found the boys. The boys would have freaked, she could almost see it perfectly. Draco would have been fuming, and Blaise would have been planning what they needed to do, and Theo — she didn't want to think about what Theo might have done.

They would've gone home and told Narcissa and Bellatrix. They probably had to tell Voldemort, too, if there was a Death Eater meeting that had occurred unscheduled. That would have to have been a couple days ago, and they would be formulating a plan by now.

There was a small part of her that would come alive during her worst moments that had her doubting that they would come for her. She trusted them with her life, but she couldn't stop the worry, the fear, that she might die here. She always felt guilty after, but she couldn't control it.

The thought that her friends would come for her was the only thing that could keep her sane in the hours without torture. She hardly is able to sleep, standing upright, but when she does, she's plagued with nightmares of her torment.

She no longer knows which torture is real. Neither leave marks, besides the soreness in her throat. When she's left alone, she attempts to get out of her chains, but it never worked. She can't count the days; doesn't know how long she's been here.

"Will you speak?" Moody questioned her later.

She doesn't know how many times he has asked her that now; it's what he always said before he began. There were a couple times where she had considered saying yes. She never did, but the thought would cross her mind.

"No," she said. She didn't spit this time, she wanted to savour that water.

"I'm sorry," he said, but she didn't think he actually meant it.

The torture started again. The screams, the pleas. It went for hours, maybe it was days or only minutes, but once again, the pain became never-ending.

There is no accurate way to describe the Crutiatus Curse to someone who has not experienced it. It is not like getting a bruise, or receiving a scratch, or breaking a bone.