Seven Devils ★ T.M.R ★

Chapter Twenty-Seven

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗
MALFOY MANOR
╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

.•° ✿ °•.
CW: Torture
°•. ✿ .•°

MARINE LAY ON her side on the cold floor, the bag over her head making it hard to breath. Something throbbed horribly in her right arm, and she wrinkled her nose to free some of the crusted, congealed blood clogged there in a vain effort to make breathing easier. Her wrists were painfully bound behind her back and her eyes were wide in the formless darkness of the bag. She wasn't alone. She could hear laboured breathing and low, muffled exclamations of pain of others around her – though no one dared speak to each other. The threat of the Death Eaters returning to resume their torture compelled them into silence without command.

It felt like an age since Yaxley had brought her to Malfoy Manor, though Marina had no idea how long exactly – pain had distorted her sense of time. She didn't know if they had been torturing her all night, or if it had only been an hour. Under the stuffy darkness of the bag Marina was none the wiser if the sun was bright in the sky or if it was the dead of night. Not that it mattered – any amount of time under the custody of Death Eaters was too long.

A door flung open and Marina jolted in fear.

"Up!" a familiar voice snapped. Bellatrix Lestrange. The woman had made many appearances during Marina's torture – heavy-lidded eyes, wild black hair, and a deep, gravelly voice that rasped when she grew agitated.

There was a flash of blue light and a sound like a whip cracking, and a man near Marina cried out in pain. Marina scrambled to her knees as quickly as she could without the use of her hands. Right as she started to stand, the whip-like crack rang out again and a sharp burst of pain erupted on the back of her calves – they had long since taken her Wardore, and she was as vulnerable as she could be.

"On your knees!" Bellatrix hissed.

Marina fell heavily into a kneel, her eyes watering reflexively at the sting. Other sounds began to permeate the room, footsteps gently clacking against the wooden floor. The room was filling up. Marina could only guess at the size of the crowd by the sounds of muttering, jeering, even some cold laughter that began to edge in around her.

She kept her head ducked, straining against her blindness under the bag to try to gage how far away they were, how many they were, anything that might help her. Her desperate scrutiny faltered as the crowd fell silent in one seamless swoop, and Marina's mind raced and strained to detect them again, feeling even more blind and exposed. Too late did Marina realise that her attention had been in the wrong place.

"Bellatrix," said a voice. High, cold, empty, Marina recognised its speaker without effort.

Voldemort had come.

Her knees suddenly felt weak beneath her and she wondered what would happen if she collapsed, used the fear to force herself steady and calm her stuttering breath. The overwhelming sense of danger had turned her skin to fire, the cold pressure of the wood stung beneath her and the bindings on her wrists became unbearable. Her face felt hot and she didn't know if it was because of her trapped breath or a flush of fear.

"What have you brought me?" Voldemort continued. His voice sent a horrible chill down Marina's spine. It was unlike anything she had ever heard, so completely devoid of warmth that something beyond her consciousness knew that it was wrong, knew that it was dangerous and subhuman and deadly the same way some hungry wild animal was deadly – inevitable and uncompromising.

The bag was torn from Marina's head and the adrenaline coursing through her turned the noise deafening. Marina blinked against the light which, all though dim, was uncomfortable to her dark-accustomed eyes. A fireplace with subdued flames cast long shadows across its black floor and drew the unsympathetic faces that encircled her even harsher and more austere. The tall stone walls and dark vaulted ceiling miles above told her that she should feel cold, but her skin was aflame with every sensation, prickling and aching against her very clothes like she was fevered.