Harry Potter and the Locked Door: Chapter V
Title: Harry Potter and the Locked Door
Rating: PG-13 / R
Length: Chaptered, WIP
Pairings: H/G, R/Hr, Bill/Fleur, Remus/Tonks, and other canon pairings
Era: Seventh-Year, Hogwarts
Summary: A copy of the Evening Prophet arrives, and its front-page story presents a crisis for Ministry officials who are desperately trying to keep the Wizarding World together and prevent it from succumbing to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Darkness is at work once again, and sometimes being alive is not the best option for an enemy of the Death Eaters.
~*~
Chapter V: Captured Crisis
A loud knock sounded on the simple wooden door, its sound causing the weary Minister for Magic to jerk awake from his self-imposed slumber. The past several months had, to put it simply, not been easy on the former Auror, and he was now trying to grab sleep wherever he possibly could. Rubbing his eyes quickly, in the hopes that he could erase the exhaustion, Rufus Scrimgeour mumbled out a reply to his guest.
“Come in,” he said, his voice barely above the sound of a whisper.
The door slowly creaked open the moment that the words of entrance had left the Minister’s mouth and in walked Percy Weasley, several papers held in stacks in his arms. He had a slight hesitancy in his step, which also transcended into his voice as he spoke.
“Minister?” he asked, shutting the door behind him before approaching his superior’s desk. “Is this a bad time?”
If the Minister for Magic wanted to be perfectly honest with his employee, he would have gruffly replied that yes, this was a horrible time, but he did not. Doing so would not have been beneficial to anyone involved. So instead, Rufus Scrimgeour waved his hand in a toss-away manner, signalling that he did not care, and reached for his glasses that he had discarded before going to sleep. Placing them on his worn face, he glanced up at the Muggle clock that hung on the wall, saw that it read 6:47 in the evening, and sighed. He was already late for supper, and he would indeed be even later as he tried to finish up his work.
“What is so important, Weasley?” he said, his voice still hoarse, causing the weary man to reach for a glass of water. As the Minister drank, Percy prattled on about a bunch of little, mediocre matters that the different Ministry departments dealt with during the day. But after he finished regaling his boss with a report about a shipment of rabid flobberworms, the young wizard paused, though not as if he was finished speaking, but like he was trying to hide something back. The Minister had been an Auror long enough to tell the difference.
“What aren’t you saying?” he asked. Percy responded by handing him one of the papers that he held in his hands.
It was a copy of the Evening Prophet. But it was unlike any issue that Rufus had ever seen. For, plastered right in the centre of the paper and taking up the entire front page were three large pictures, each pretty much identical to the others, save for the people involved. A humongous, bold headline glared out at the Minister as he stared at the paper.
AURORS ALIVE!
The first headline, though, was just slightly misleading. Below the two words that would sent hope and relief into the families of four individuals, were the words that would crush that hope, and in some cases, bring even more grief.
THREE HELD CAPTIVE IN AZKABAN; ONE FATE UNCONFIRMED
Rufus Scrimgeour held back a bitter reply that he knew would be unnecessary. Instead, his tired eyes locked onto the three pictures that held the front page of the Wizarding newspaper. On the far left side was a picture of Juan Rodriguez, followed by one of Dana Walsh. The chain was ended with a photograph of Roger Folan. Every one of them looked the same. They all had their hands bound, Roger with rope and Juan and Dana with chains, and they all looked injured and battle-worn. The setting was also identical in all three pictures -- a cell in Azkaban Prison.
Anger rose up in the Minister as he gazed at the pictures and scanned the article. He had worked with every one of the Aurors that had been in Azkaban when Voldemort had taken the prison, and to see them humiliated like this -- photographs of their torture littering the front page of the paper -- made him want to lash out at something, anything. As he scanned through the article below, the anger boiling inside of him intensified, especially as he read the final paragraphs.
Sources that have communicated with the Prophet have confirmed that Dana Walsh, 26; Roger Folan, 34; and Juan Rodriguez, 31; are indeed alive in the Wizarding fortress. The fate of the fourth Auror on guard duty, Michelle Branch, 25; has yet to be confirmed.
Our London office received word of this confirmation at 4:30 p.m., and within ten minutes was seeking statements from the Ministry of Magic. Both Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour and Head of the Auror Office, Gawain Robards, declined to comment.
The frustration was apparent on Rufus’s face as he glared up at Percy, his golden eyes burning. “What do they mean, we ‘declined to comment’? Why wasn’t I alerted to this development immediately, Weasley?” The Minister’s voice was growing in volume, though it never quite reached what would be considered a shout.
“We . . . er . . . thought it best if . . . well . . .” muttered Percy, his voice eventually trailing off as he struggled to answer the Minister’s inquiries. The truth was that they really had not thought about informing Rufus right after the news broke and the Prophet was calling for statements. Cheryl Rosen, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, had wanted to keep things quiet, and no one at the Ministry had thought that the story would be run in the Evening Prophet.
“Never mind,” said Scrimgeour as he rose from his desk, hurrying past Percy and out of his office. He walked briskly down the corridor, heading towards the main meeting chamber, Percy following behind him. Upon reaching the set of double doors that led into the chamber, the Minister, his hand on the doorknob, turned around to face his assistant.
“Find the Department Heads, as well as Robards, and tell them that I’ve called an emergency meeting,” he said. “You have five minutes to get them all down here.” And with that, Rufus Scrimgeour entered the meeting chamber and Percy Weasley ran off to summon the eight individuals.
----
Within four minutes, ten wizards and witches were gathered together, each one taking their seats around the oval table in the centre of the room. Minister Scrimgeour sat at the table’s head and surveyed the other Ministry workers. To his left sat his assistant, Percy Weasley, who already had a quill, ink, and parchment out, ready to document the meeting. Next to him was Randal Croaker, an Unspeakable and the Head of the Department of Mysteries, a position he had held for over a decade. Obliviator Arnold Peasgood was reclined beside Croaker. Down here as the Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, the older gentlemen appeared quite bored as he drummed his fingers on the mahogany table. Amos Diggory, the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, finished up the left side of table. Sitting at the other end and opposite the Minister was Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office. Though not technically a Department Head, Robards had pretty much the same status as one.
Richard Smyth sat to Robards’s left as the Head of International Magical Cooperation, a position he had achieved and maintained following Bartemius Crouch’s sudden death around three years previously. Next came Madam Katherine Edgecomb, the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. To her left was Julia Janison from the Quidditch Headquarters and the Head of Magical Games and Sports after Ludo Bagman’s disappearance. To finish off the Ministry Department Heads was Cheryl Rosen, a member of the Wizengamot. She was the first one to speak.
“Well, Minister,” she said, her voice characteristically harsh and cold, “I take it we’re here about the Prophet.” Amos and Julia glanced up at the Minister upon hearing these words, each with a look of confusion on their faces. Neither of them had received a copy of the Prophet, after all.
“Yes, Cheryl,” replied Scrimgeour, almost at the same time as Julia broke in with, “What about the Prophet?” to which Richard Smyth slid a copy of the Wizarding paper over to his younger colleague, whose eyes widened in shock and horror. “The events in the paper are exactly the reason for this meeting.”
“If I may speak, Minister,” interrupted Arnold, who leaned forwards in his chair. “You say that we are meeting concerning these pictures,” he said, pointing towards the sole copy of the paper on the table. “But what, exactly, are you proposing that we do? Surely, you are not contemplating a raid on the prison to rescue these three individuals.”
No one spoke in response to the Obliviator’s statements right away, but Cheryl Rosen did not wait too long before she had her say.
“Before any rescue plans are put into place, Arnold,” she said, “a lot of preparation has to be done. I’m sure this meeting is just in regards to the press spilling secret and sensitive material to the public without Ministry comment.” The forty-six-year-old witch turned towards Scrimgeour. “Am I correct in assuming as much, Minister?” she said.
Her voice jerked Rufus from his trance, bringing his focus back on the meeting. “Yes,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes fiercely as he spoke. “You’re right, Cheryl. Rescue plans will have to wait; for now, we need to issue a statement, any statement, concerning these reports.” He turned and looked at everyone seated at the table. “Do we know that everything reported here in this article is fact?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, Minister, we do,” replied Robards. “Walsh, Folan, and Rodriguez are, indeed, alive, but as for Branch, no one has heard anything. She could be alive, like the others, or she could be dead. We have nothing else to go on.”
Scrimgeour nodded and turned towards Percy. The younger wizard had a few ink spots on his fingertips from when he had dipped the quill. “Weasley,” he said, “write out a quick, brief statement concerning these events,” (he motioned towards the copy of the Evening Prophet), “and then send out notices to any reporter you can. It’s time that they actually had Ministry comments to print.”
With that said, the Minister rose from his seat and exited the meeting room, heading back up to his office as he did so. His exit was soon copied by the other Department Heads, each hurrying back to whatever they had left behind when Percy had fetched them for the meeting. Cheryl Rosen was the last person to leave the meeting room, but before she shut the doors behind her, the witch glanced back at the paper sitting on the table, her eyes locking on the three pictures of the captured Aurors.
I hope they’re all right, she thought.
----
The final rays of a setting sun shone down through a high, barred window of a prison cell, lighting up the room below. The golden light revealed the cold, straw-covered stones that made up the floor of the high-security cell, as well as reflecting off of the iron bars that encaged the prisoner.
Most of the time, the prisoners could be seen pacing back and forth across the small cell that they called home for the present. Their minds drove them to madness, a feeling that was also spurred along by the silence that reverberated around the cells. Many had sought to claw their eyes and brains out just to have something to do other than sit or pace. When prisoners had approached this point was usually when the talking and mumbling started. Those trapped in the cells would give physical voice to their thoughts and memories, just so as to have something outwardly noticeable to interact with. There was always action going on inside the cell.
But things were different this time. Most of the cells were now empty, where just yesterday they had been filled to maximum allowance. The mumblings and pacing of prisoners had stopped, and the prison had been plunged into an unearthly and eerie silence, one that pierced people to the core and sent shivers up one’s spine. Basically, the fortress seemed dead.
That was not true, though. And the fading sun had proof that the prison had not died. The sun’s rays illuminated the cell enough to reveal the bound and bleeding body of a young witch, a young witch who was just starting to awaken from her slumber.
Dana Walsh struggled to open her dark brown eyes, though even that small amount of action seemed to hurt her. Her head was pounding in agony, but she fought against the pain, at least long enough to sit up, and pushed herself up against the cold stone wall below the barred window, using the stones to support her. She gasped and hissed as intense pain shot up her arms from her wrists, and looking down, Dana discovered the cause.
The skin on her wrists was burned to the point that they were basically raw. Every slight movement of her hands sent another wave of agony up her arms, causing tears of pain to fall down her face. The salty liquid mixed with the dried blood on Dana’s face as well, and both fell to the ground, where it joined more blood and rain water.
Concentrate, Dana, she thought as she tried to calm her breathing and heart rate, which had intensified as she gazed around the small cell, her memories of all of the previous night’s events finally returning to her in full. Breathing was difficult, and each breath caused agony to rip in her chest, making her feel like she was inhaling fire. Her throat had also been worn raw, and she had the coppery taste of blood dwelling in her mouth.
Bruised and/or broken ribs, burned wrists, torn throat, and other miscellaneous cuts and gashes, Dana thought, listing off her injuries one by one as she fully discovered them. The blood from most of her cuts had stopped flowing, especially from those on her face and forehead, and the fog in her mind was clearing, allowing her to gather her thoughts.
Before Dana could do much thinking, however, the sound of footsteps approaching echoed throughout the corridor, and they were quickly followed by two voices.
“Hurry up,” muttered a female voice, and Dana instantly felt her body grow rigid with fear. She knew that voice, and the very sound of it sent shivers up the young witch’s spine.
“I’m coming,” replied a deeper, male voice, but this one was unrecognizable to Dana. That fact did not really matter, however, because anyone that was willingly accompanying her would not be a friend to the Auror. Glancing towards her barred door, Dana saw the shadows of the two Death Eaters approach and, not wanting them to torment her, she feigned unconsciousness, hoping that they would both leave.
Bellatrix was the first to come clearly into sight, and she was followed by the second Death Eater, who seemed to be burdened down with something, like a heavy package of some sort. It was not until he came fully into the light of the fading sun that Dana was able to tell that the ‘package’ was actually a body . . . a very limp and unmoving body.
“Just throw him in here,” said Bellatrix, motioning towards the cell on Dana’s right. “It’s not like he’s in any position to get away.” The doors to the cell creaked open, the sound echoing around along the corridor, and it was quickly followed by a thump as the two Dark followers dropped the body unceremoniously to the stone floor. Slamming the bars shut behind them, Bellatrix and her fellow Death Eater left the corridor, strolling right past Dana’s cell without so much as a glance towards her.
For a moment, Dana did not move; instead, she remained perfectly still, listening for any sound from either her fellow prisoner next door or any other Death Eaters. No noises were heard, however, and so Dana began to make her way towards the bars on her cell, gasping in pain at every sudden movement that sent a new, fresh wave of agony through her frail body. Just a little bit further, she thought as she crawled along the floor. The chains that bound her wrists to the stone walls were luckily able to reach across the length of her cell. Finally, after much struggling and pain, Dana made it to the bars.
As she reached up to touch them, however, the young witch received a major shock . . . literally. The moment that her fingers grazed across the cool metal bars, a harsh, fiery shock shot up her arm and vibrated through her body, sending her flying backwards across the distance of her cell. A small scream escaped her lips as she slammed into the back wall, her head banging off of the stone, and lost consciousness.
----
The sound of a scream forced Juan Rodriguez awake, and his eyes jerked open in horror. For the briefest of moments, he thought he was back with them, but as his gaze took in the stone walls of his solitary cell, he exhaled a slight sigh of relief. As he breathed, however, his body shook in extreme pain and, with a fearful look on his dark face, the Spanish Auror looked down, seeing his injuries in full for the first time.
His right arm was clearly broken, as he could see the white tip of the bone jutting out through the skin, and his left shoulder screamed in agony with even the slightest movement. Several broken ribs caused his breathing to send waves of agony through his body with every breath, and his hair was caked to his face with a mixture of blood, dirt, and sweat. Juan’s ragged and dirty shirt had also become soaked through with his own blood that was still flowing from several of the whip lashes on his back. His arms, chest, and face were covered in large bruises made mostly from heavy pairs of boots that had kicked at him within the past couple of hours. Even the simple action of blinking his eyes caused Juan pain, due to the extensive bruises dotting his face.
Juan shut his eyes for a brief moment, willing the sleep to come back and take him, but it did not work. Rather than receive the welcome comfort of unconsciousness, all Juan saw were the memories of his torture replaying themselves over and over in his mind.
For hours, Juan had been beaten, cursed, threatened, and abused by just about every Death Eater currently in Azkaban. It had started out with a few castings of the Cruciatus Curse, but the torture session soon evolved into much more than that. Before long, Juan was experiencing Muggle forms of torture with a few magical twists. Fiery whips lashed out at his suspended body, creating numerous gashes on his chest and back. Potions had also been shoved down his throat, each one sending a different wave of agony through his body or causing some other type of effect -- blindness, deafness, hallucinations, spasms, seizures -- whatever one could possibly imagine. Even basic Muggle assaults such as beating and kicking did not seem to be considered too low for some of his torturers.
Juan’s mind, however, did not dwell on his body’s pain. Instead, it focussed on the sound of the other person in the neighbouring cell, the one whose scream had awoken the Spanish man in the first place. Struggling through the pain, as well as fighting the difficulty of moving with both wrists bound together, Juan slowly made his way over to the wall that his cell shared with the other prisoner’s. When he had finally made it, Juan slumped against the stone wall, breathing in exhaustion regardless of the pain.
As he slumped further down along the wall, his fingers discovered a single spot that felt different than the rest of the stone structure. Looking down, Juan saw the small area where there was a hole in the wall, a hole that was surrounded by tiny, loose rocks. The sight of the hole seemed to light a fire inside him, for on the other side was a companion, someone that he could talk with. The fire spurred him on as he widened the hole, throwing the loose rocks aside with his bound hands.
After several minutes of wiggling rocks free, Juan had uncovered a hole that was large enough to fit an average human fist through. He manoeuvred himself so that he was able to lie down comfortably on the ground and peer through the hole to the other side. The sight that greeted his eyes, however, was not exactly what he had expected.
Sprawled out below the high barred window was Dana Walsh, unconscious, with blood flowing from a newly created gash on her head. Her breathing was slow and shallow, the slight rise and fall of her chest worrying Juan rather than comforting him. She looked too close to death, in his opinion.
“Dana,” he whispered, though his voice came out more as a groan of pain than an actual word. Taking a quick swallow, though the action burned his raw throat, he tried again. “Dana . . . wake up, Dana,” he muttered. He breathed a sigh of relief as his friend started to stir.
----
Dana awoke to the sound of her name being muttered, though at first she thought it was still a part of a dream, as it sounded like it came from very far away. Opening her eyes slowly, she scanned around her cell, giving a slight jump as she looked over at the right wall.
There were fingers wiggling through a hole in the stone wall, and a voice accompanied them . . . a voice that she recognised and was incredibly glad to hear.
“Dana,” muttered Juan.
She tried to reply, but at first it only came out as a strangled, “I’m here,” the volume of her torn voice barely loud enough to reach her own ears, much less across the cell. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“I’m here, Juan,” she said. “I’m okay . . .”
“Está bien, Dana,” he answered, the joy he felt at hearing her voice, proving that she was alive, evident in his voice. “Está bien . . .”
The two Aurors slipped into brief conversations, their sentences short so as not to cause too much pain from speaking. “Are you hurt?” asked Juan, worry lining his tone.
“Not too much,” answered Dana. “Just some broken ribs and a few other cuts. What about you, Juan?”
The Spanish Auror did not respond right away, and Dana could already tell the hesitancy in his answer. “Same here,” he said, but she knew that he was lying. The pain was evident in his voice.
“You’re lying,” she said, expecting him to deny it, but he didn’t.
“You’re right; I am.”
“Are you going to tell me the truth, Juan?” she asked, her voice sounding slightly choked up as she spoke, but he did not answer her. “Did they try to break you?” Dana whispered, the tone of her voice tinged with fear.
She heard Juan sigh from his cell, and she knew that she had the answer. Whether he would admit it to her or not, Dana knew now that her friend and co-worker had indeed been tortured.
“They threatened Josephina,” he muttered. “Said they would kill her if I didn’t give in.”
“What else?” she asked, knowing full well that Juan was not sharing everything with her. “Juan,” she continued when he did not answer. “What else is there, Juan?”
“He was there,” the Auror mumbled from his cell, his voice barely louder than that of a frail whisper, but Dana was able to catch every word. Those three words sent more fear travelling through Dana than anything else she had ever encountered. Voldemort had been there. Voldemort had tortured her friend.
“Juan --” Dana had started to speak, but her voice was immediately cut off as her blood froze in her veins, her mind fogging over and screams echoing in her head. The Dementor approached her cell and dwelled right outside the barred door, its rattling breath sending waves of terror coursing through her body.
“What about the fourth, My Lord?”
“She’s dead.” . . .
“Good-bye, Danielle,” said Dana, hugging her younger sister close to her. “Stay with Biannca, she’ll take care of you.” Danielle cried as she held her older sister close. She’d already lost her brother, and now Dana was having to leave her sister, too.
“I don’t want to go!” screamed Danielle.
“You have to --”
“I HATE YOU!” . . .
David, his lifeless body covered and lying in a pool of his own blood, stared up at Dana with dead and terror-filled eyes. . . .
“No,” muttered Dana. The Dementor finally left her and Juan alone. Once her mind had cleared of the fog left by the dark creature, she could hear the intense gasping for breath that came from Juan’s cell. “Juan?” she asked, calling out for her friend. “Juan, answer me.”
It was a few moments before she received a reply. “Yeah, Dana,” he sighed, “I’m fine.”
No, you’re not fine, she thought, but she decided not to voice the matter this time. Instead, she directed the conversation down a different path.
“Juan,” she said, “did you see Roger?”
----
The rays of a dying sun were again the only means of light that illuminated the dark and pain-filled chamber where the third Auror was located. Roger Folan, his arms bound tightly together and suspended over his head, stood alone in the room, gasping for breath. His bloodied and dirty shirt lay crumpled in a pile at his feet, while bruises covered his bare, sweat-glistened chest and blood flowed from freshly-applied whip lashes on his back. Blood still covered his pale face, but it had dried hard by now and was no longer flowing from the large gash across his face.
The physical pain that Roger was in, however, barely compared to the mental anguish that he had just gone through with the Death Eaters. Like Juan, he had been forced to drink dozens of potions, each concoction giving the Auror the most horrific hallucinations that one could think about. Sights of Roger’s family contorted and suffering, writhing under the wands of hundreds of tormenters, still swam strongly in his mind, an after effect of one of the nasty and violent potions.
He shook his head slightly, trying to clear away the images, but stopped moving when the door to the room swung open, banging against the wall as it completed its opening. A slight feeling of fear gripped Roger for the briefest of moments, but then it left when he realised that the Death Eater was alone. It would not be like last time.
Roger watched the Death Eater approach him, the figure’s outline clearly feminine. The fear returned to Roger as the thought of Bellatrix Lestrange entered into his mind, but it was an idea that was soon dismissed. He had seen Bellatrix before, and the woman in front of him was definitely not her.
The woman walked right up to Roger, her wand never rising from its loose position at her side. She did not seem like she was preparing to torture him, but Roger braced himself for the pain regardless. The action, though, was unnecessary. She did not raise her wand, though she stood right in front of the bound and tortured Auror, but instead, she lifted her pale hands and gently slid the white mask from her face, lowering her hood at the same time, revealing pale skin and long, luscious locks of thick black hair as she did so. Recognition dawned on Roger’s face as he met the female Death Eater's dark gaze.
“Selena?” he asked, but the name barely had time to pass his lips before the Death Eater had her lips pressed against his, silencing all speech and thought from him in an intense kiss. She ran her hands passionately through his long, blond hair, wrapping her arms around his neck and then down his sweat and blood covered chest. Her tongue sought entrance into his mouth, but Roger soon jolted back to the present reality, pulling back as far from the Death Eater as he could.
“What are you doing, Selena?” She did not answer in words, instead pressing her lips to his once more. The passion between them did not go far, however. “Selena --”
“Just give in, Roger,” muttered Selena Rosa, her voice whispering into Roger’s ear. “The Dark Lord is generous; he’ll be merciful to you if you don’t fight . . .”
“Rosa!” shouted Roger as he pulled as far away from her as his position would allow him to do. He locked his intense blue gaze with the woman before him, trying desperately to see why she was acting in the manner that she was. He had known her for years; Selena had been his partner in the Aurors up until a few months ago when she disappeared during a raid and was presumed dead. This isn’t Selena, he thought. She has to be under the Imperius Curse or something.
“What’s gotten into you, Selena?” he whispered, the answer escaping him. “Why are you acting like this? What are you doing here? I thought you were dead.” The questions and statements just kept coming from Roger, but Selena never answered a single one of them. For, no sooner had Roger paused in his assault of inquiries did the single door to the chamber bang open once more, revealing Bellatrix standing in the doorway. Without warning, she raised her wand and pointed it at Roger.
“Crucio!” she shouted. The spell hit the bound Auror directly in his chest, catching him unawares, and caused him to emit a scream as the pain tore through his body, which was also jerking in the bonds. The curse did not last very long, however.
Selena twirled around to face Bellatrix, her wand raised, and muttered a spell that sent the Death Eater hurling out of the room and into the corridor beyond, thus breaking the spell on Roger. “He’s my Auror,” hissed Selena as she glared down at Bellatrix, who was in the process of rising from the floor. She had her wand pointed at Selena, an Unforgivable Curse on her lips, but was not given the chance to utter the incantation.
“Cease, Bella,” said a high, cold voice from the corridor. At the sound of the voice, both Bellatrix and Selena lowered their wands. Bellatrix nodded her head in deference, following her Master into the room.
Roger’s entire body tensed up in terror as his eyes met Voldemort's for the first time in his life. Though he had been an Auror for several years, he had never faced a wizard so feared as the one standing in front of him right then. Adjectives did not exist in any language that could adequately describe the feelings coursing through Roger’s body as Voldemort came even closer towards him. He wanted so badly to run, flee, hide, anything but to stay where he was and be in the same room with this fearsome wizard. He had lost all sense of his surroundings as well. Nothing mattered to him, nothing entered his mind but the fact that Voldemort was there, and he was feeling more terror than he would have thought it possible for man to feel.
“My Lord, I beg your forgiveness,” said Selena, her words seeming to break the spell that Voldemort's presence had cast over Roger. Voldemort, however, did not pay any attention to the now kneeling Death Eater at his feet. His scarlet-coloured gaze and attention was instead focussed on Roger.
Though his mind and body were terrified, Roger could not keep his eyes from gleaming in a combination of hatred and defiance. He knew that he feared the Dark wizard in front of him, but he also knew that he hated him. Voldemort and his Death Eaters had destroyed so many things that he loved and taken so much from him, it was impossible for Roger to completely forgo those feelings and leave only fear and terror.
Voldemort, however, did not seem to care what feelings or emotions were running through Roger at the moment. He walked right up to the bound, bleeding Auror and locked his powerful gaze with him. “Will you serve me?” he said, the words of which sent a feeling of surprise through Roger. The combination of this, with shock and defiant hatred kept Roger from answering. Voldemort, though, wasted no time on any merciful niceties.
“Crucio,” he said.
Unlike Bellatrix's spell, Roger was prepared and had braced himself for the Cruciatus Curse this time around. The result was not a decrease in the pain, but rather he was able to fight the screaming, keeping the noise held within himself and only allowing a slight grunting, moaning noise to escape his control. Voldemort waved his wand after a short time, though, and lifted the curse.
“Will you serve me?” he said, his tone of voice making it perfectly clear that Voldemort did not really consider the statement to be a question worthy of any other answer but one. Roger, though, thought differently.
“No,” he hissed. His body still shaking from the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, Roger summoned as much defiance as he could find in himself, forcing the feelings of terror down as far as he could at the same time, and spat at Voldemort.
Voldemort simply glared at the bound Auror, his expression unreadable, though at the same time, terrifying. With a quick, fluid motion, Voldemort waved his wand and a loud crack echoed around the torture chamber, followed quickly by Roger’s screams of pain as he felt his right arm break cleanly in two, the bone breaking through the skin and blood flowing magnificently down his arm. The screams increased as Voldemort left Roger with another dose of the Cruciatus as a parting gift.
“Selena,” hissed Voldemort as he stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at the still kneeling figure of the former Auror, now Death Eater next to Roger’s screaming, writhing, and bleeding form. She rose quickly from her position, following her Master’s orders to leave the room, but not before she had glanced back at Roger one more time. Bellatrix, however, was still present.
“Break him, Bella,” said Voldemort, turning to his loyal servant, who raised her dark head to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. “Break him, but don’t kill him.” And with that, Voldemort left the torture chamber, leaving Bellatrix and Roger alone.
Once her Master was out of sight, Bellatrix entered further into the dimly-lit room, an ecstatic and maniacal grin on her pale face as she looked over Roger’s slumped form, supported as it was by the chains that bound him to the ceiling in a standing position. He was gasping for breath, trying desperately to regain strength after the last assault. He did, however, spare a brief moment to look up at Bellatrix and, though he tried to hide it, Roger’s face showed his fear of the torture that he knew was coming.
Bellatrix turned away from her toy Auror to shut the door. As the thin strip of light started to disappear from beyond the corridor, the room slowly descended into complete, vast darkness.
“It’s time to play,” said Bellatrix. The door finally clanged shut and with a click, was locked into place.
~*~
And that's the end of Chapter V, and as far in the story that I've completed. Right now, Harry Potter and the Locked Door is still on an indefinite hiatus.
~Megan
Rating: PG-13 / R
Length: Chaptered, WIP
Pairings: H/G, R/Hr, Bill/Fleur, Remus/Tonks, and other canon pairings
Era: Seventh-Year, Hogwarts
Summary: A copy of the Evening Prophet arrives, and its front-page story presents a crisis for Ministry officials who are desperately trying to keep the Wizarding World together and prevent it from succumbing to Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Darkness is at work once again, and sometimes being alive is not the best option for an enemy of the Death Eaters.
~*~
Chapter V: Captured Crisis
A loud knock sounded on the simple wooden door, its sound causing the weary Minister for Magic to jerk awake from his self-imposed slumber. The past several months had, to put it simply, not been easy on the former Auror, and he was now trying to grab sleep wherever he possibly could. Rubbing his eyes quickly, in the hopes that he could erase the exhaustion, Rufus Scrimgeour mumbled out a reply to his guest.
“Come in,” he said, his voice barely above the sound of a whisper.
The door slowly creaked open the moment that the words of entrance had left the Minister’s mouth and in walked Percy Weasley, several papers held in stacks in his arms. He had a slight hesitancy in his step, which also transcended into his voice as he spoke.
“Minister?” he asked, shutting the door behind him before approaching his superior’s desk. “Is this a bad time?”
If the Minister for Magic wanted to be perfectly honest with his employee, he would have gruffly replied that yes, this was a horrible time, but he did not. Doing so would not have been beneficial to anyone involved. So instead, Rufus Scrimgeour waved his hand in a toss-away manner, signalling that he did not care, and reached for his glasses that he had discarded before going to sleep. Placing them on his worn face, he glanced up at the Muggle clock that hung on the wall, saw that it read 6:47 in the evening, and sighed. He was already late for supper, and he would indeed be even later as he tried to finish up his work.
“What is so important, Weasley?” he said, his voice still hoarse, causing the weary man to reach for a glass of water. As the Minister drank, Percy prattled on about a bunch of little, mediocre matters that the different Ministry departments dealt with during the day. But after he finished regaling his boss with a report about a shipment of rabid flobberworms, the young wizard paused, though not as if he was finished speaking, but like he was trying to hide something back. The Minister had been an Auror long enough to tell the difference.
“What aren’t you saying?” he asked. Percy responded by handing him one of the papers that he held in his hands.
It was a copy of the Evening Prophet. But it was unlike any issue that Rufus had ever seen. For, plastered right in the centre of the paper and taking up the entire front page were three large pictures, each pretty much identical to the others, save for the people involved. A humongous, bold headline glared out at the Minister as he stared at the paper.
AURORS ALIVE!
The first headline, though, was just slightly misleading. Below the two words that would sent hope and relief into the families of four individuals, were the words that would crush that hope, and in some cases, bring even more grief.
THREE HELD CAPTIVE IN AZKABAN; ONE FATE UNCONFIRMED
Rufus Scrimgeour held back a bitter reply that he knew would be unnecessary. Instead, his tired eyes locked onto the three pictures that held the front page of the Wizarding newspaper. On the far left side was a picture of Juan Rodriguez, followed by one of Dana Walsh. The chain was ended with a photograph of Roger Folan. Every one of them looked the same. They all had their hands bound, Roger with rope and Juan and Dana with chains, and they all looked injured and battle-worn. The setting was also identical in all three pictures -- a cell in Azkaban Prison.
Anger rose up in the Minister as he gazed at the pictures and scanned the article. He had worked with every one of the Aurors that had been in Azkaban when Voldemort had taken the prison, and to see them humiliated like this -- photographs of their torture littering the front page of the paper -- made him want to lash out at something, anything. As he scanned through the article below, the anger boiling inside of him intensified, especially as he read the final paragraphs.
Sources that have communicated with the Prophet have confirmed that Dana Walsh, 26; Roger Folan, 34; and Juan Rodriguez, 31; are indeed alive in the Wizarding fortress. The fate of the fourth Auror on guard duty, Michelle Branch, 25; has yet to be confirmed.
Our London office received word of this confirmation at 4:30 p.m., and within ten minutes was seeking statements from the Ministry of Magic. Both Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour and Head of the Auror Office, Gawain Robards, declined to comment.
The frustration was apparent on Rufus’s face as he glared up at Percy, his golden eyes burning. “What do they mean, we ‘declined to comment’? Why wasn’t I alerted to this development immediately, Weasley?” The Minister’s voice was growing in volume, though it never quite reached what would be considered a shout.
“We . . . er . . . thought it best if . . . well . . .” muttered Percy, his voice eventually trailing off as he struggled to answer the Minister’s inquiries. The truth was that they really had not thought about informing Rufus right after the news broke and the Prophet was calling for statements. Cheryl Rosen, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, had wanted to keep things quiet, and no one at the Ministry had thought that the story would be run in the Evening Prophet.
“Never mind,” said Scrimgeour as he rose from his desk, hurrying past Percy and out of his office. He walked briskly down the corridor, heading towards the main meeting chamber, Percy following behind him. Upon reaching the set of double doors that led into the chamber, the Minister, his hand on the doorknob, turned around to face his assistant.
“Find the Department Heads, as well as Robards, and tell them that I’ve called an emergency meeting,” he said. “You have five minutes to get them all down here.” And with that, Rufus Scrimgeour entered the meeting chamber and Percy Weasley ran off to summon the eight individuals.
----
Within four minutes, ten wizards and witches were gathered together, each one taking their seats around the oval table in the centre of the room. Minister Scrimgeour sat at the table’s head and surveyed the other Ministry workers. To his left sat his assistant, Percy Weasley, who already had a quill, ink, and parchment out, ready to document the meeting. Next to him was Randal Croaker, an Unspeakable and the Head of the Department of Mysteries, a position he had held for over a decade. Obliviator Arnold Peasgood was reclined beside Croaker. Down here as the Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, the older gentlemen appeared quite bored as he drummed his fingers on the mahogany table. Amos Diggory, the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, finished up the left side of table. Sitting at the other end and opposite the Minister was Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror Office. Though not technically a Department Head, Robards had pretty much the same status as one.
Richard Smyth sat to Robards’s left as the Head of International Magical Cooperation, a position he had achieved and maintained following Bartemius Crouch’s sudden death around three years previously. Next came Madam Katherine Edgecomb, the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. To her left was Julia Janison from the Quidditch Headquarters and the Head of Magical Games and Sports after Ludo Bagman’s disappearance. To finish off the Ministry Department Heads was Cheryl Rosen, a member of the Wizengamot. She was the first one to speak.
“Well, Minister,” she said, her voice characteristically harsh and cold, “I take it we’re here about the Prophet.” Amos and Julia glanced up at the Minister upon hearing these words, each with a look of confusion on their faces. Neither of them had received a copy of the Prophet, after all.
“Yes, Cheryl,” replied Scrimgeour, almost at the same time as Julia broke in with, “What about the Prophet?” to which Richard Smyth slid a copy of the Wizarding paper over to his younger colleague, whose eyes widened in shock and horror. “The events in the paper are exactly the reason for this meeting.”
“If I may speak, Minister,” interrupted Arnold, who leaned forwards in his chair. “You say that we are meeting concerning these pictures,” he said, pointing towards the sole copy of the paper on the table. “But what, exactly, are you proposing that we do? Surely, you are not contemplating a raid on the prison to rescue these three individuals.”
No one spoke in response to the Obliviator’s statements right away, but Cheryl Rosen did not wait too long before she had her say.
“Before any rescue plans are put into place, Arnold,” she said, “a lot of preparation has to be done. I’m sure this meeting is just in regards to the press spilling secret and sensitive material to the public without Ministry comment.” The forty-six-year-old witch turned towards Scrimgeour. “Am I correct in assuming as much, Minister?” she said.
Her voice jerked Rufus from his trance, bringing his focus back on the meeting. “Yes,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes fiercely as he spoke. “You’re right, Cheryl. Rescue plans will have to wait; for now, we need to issue a statement, any statement, concerning these reports.” He turned and looked at everyone seated at the table. “Do we know that everything reported here in this article is fact?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, Minister, we do,” replied Robards. “Walsh, Folan, and Rodriguez are, indeed, alive, but as for Branch, no one has heard anything. She could be alive, like the others, or she could be dead. We have nothing else to go on.”
Scrimgeour nodded and turned towards Percy. The younger wizard had a few ink spots on his fingertips from when he had dipped the quill. “Weasley,” he said, “write out a quick, brief statement concerning these events,” (he motioned towards the copy of the Evening Prophet), “and then send out notices to any reporter you can. It’s time that they actually had Ministry comments to print.”
With that said, the Minister rose from his seat and exited the meeting room, heading back up to his office as he did so. His exit was soon copied by the other Department Heads, each hurrying back to whatever they had left behind when Percy had fetched them for the meeting. Cheryl Rosen was the last person to leave the meeting room, but before she shut the doors behind her, the witch glanced back at the paper sitting on the table, her eyes locking on the three pictures of the captured Aurors.
I hope they’re all right, she thought.
----
The final rays of a setting sun shone down through a high, barred window of a prison cell, lighting up the room below. The golden light revealed the cold, straw-covered stones that made up the floor of the high-security cell, as well as reflecting off of the iron bars that encaged the prisoner.
Most of the time, the prisoners could be seen pacing back and forth across the small cell that they called home for the present. Their minds drove them to madness, a feeling that was also spurred along by the silence that reverberated around the cells. Many had sought to claw their eyes and brains out just to have something to do other than sit or pace. When prisoners had approached this point was usually when the talking and mumbling started. Those trapped in the cells would give physical voice to their thoughts and memories, just so as to have something outwardly noticeable to interact with. There was always action going on inside the cell.
But things were different this time. Most of the cells were now empty, where just yesterday they had been filled to maximum allowance. The mumblings and pacing of prisoners had stopped, and the prison had been plunged into an unearthly and eerie silence, one that pierced people to the core and sent shivers up one’s spine. Basically, the fortress seemed dead.
That was not true, though. And the fading sun had proof that the prison had not died. The sun’s rays illuminated the cell enough to reveal the bound and bleeding body of a young witch, a young witch who was just starting to awaken from her slumber.
Dana Walsh struggled to open her dark brown eyes, though even that small amount of action seemed to hurt her. Her head was pounding in agony, but she fought against the pain, at least long enough to sit up, and pushed herself up against the cold stone wall below the barred window, using the stones to support her. She gasped and hissed as intense pain shot up her arms from her wrists, and looking down, Dana discovered the cause.
The skin on her wrists was burned to the point that they were basically raw. Every slight movement of her hands sent another wave of agony up her arms, causing tears of pain to fall down her face. The salty liquid mixed with the dried blood on Dana’s face as well, and both fell to the ground, where it joined more blood and rain water.
Concentrate, Dana, she thought as she tried to calm her breathing and heart rate, which had intensified as she gazed around the small cell, her memories of all of the previous night’s events finally returning to her in full. Breathing was difficult, and each breath caused agony to rip in her chest, making her feel like she was inhaling fire. Her throat had also been worn raw, and she had the coppery taste of blood dwelling in her mouth.
Bruised and/or broken ribs, burned wrists, torn throat, and other miscellaneous cuts and gashes, Dana thought, listing off her injuries one by one as she fully discovered them. The blood from most of her cuts had stopped flowing, especially from those on her face and forehead, and the fog in her mind was clearing, allowing her to gather her thoughts.
Before Dana could do much thinking, however, the sound of footsteps approaching echoed throughout the corridor, and they were quickly followed by two voices.
“Hurry up,” muttered a female voice, and Dana instantly felt her body grow rigid with fear. She knew that voice, and the very sound of it sent shivers up the young witch’s spine.
“I’m coming,” replied a deeper, male voice, but this one was unrecognizable to Dana. That fact did not really matter, however, because anyone that was willingly accompanying her would not be a friend to the Auror. Glancing towards her barred door, Dana saw the shadows of the two Death Eaters approach and, not wanting them to torment her, she feigned unconsciousness, hoping that they would both leave.
Bellatrix was the first to come clearly into sight, and she was followed by the second Death Eater, who seemed to be burdened down with something, like a heavy package of some sort. It was not until he came fully into the light of the fading sun that Dana was able to tell that the ‘package’ was actually a body . . . a very limp and unmoving body.
“Just throw him in here,” said Bellatrix, motioning towards the cell on Dana’s right. “It’s not like he’s in any position to get away.” The doors to the cell creaked open, the sound echoing around along the corridor, and it was quickly followed by a thump as the two Dark followers dropped the body unceremoniously to the stone floor. Slamming the bars shut behind them, Bellatrix and her fellow Death Eater left the corridor, strolling right past Dana’s cell without so much as a glance towards her.
For a moment, Dana did not move; instead, she remained perfectly still, listening for any sound from either her fellow prisoner next door or any other Death Eaters. No noises were heard, however, and so Dana began to make her way towards the bars on her cell, gasping in pain at every sudden movement that sent a new, fresh wave of agony through her frail body. Just a little bit further, she thought as she crawled along the floor. The chains that bound her wrists to the stone walls were luckily able to reach across the length of her cell. Finally, after much struggling and pain, Dana made it to the bars.
As she reached up to touch them, however, the young witch received a major shock . . . literally. The moment that her fingers grazed across the cool metal bars, a harsh, fiery shock shot up her arm and vibrated through her body, sending her flying backwards across the distance of her cell. A small scream escaped her lips as she slammed into the back wall, her head banging off of the stone, and lost consciousness.
----
The sound of a scream forced Juan Rodriguez awake, and his eyes jerked open in horror. For the briefest of moments, he thought he was back with them, but as his gaze took in the stone walls of his solitary cell, he exhaled a slight sigh of relief. As he breathed, however, his body shook in extreme pain and, with a fearful look on his dark face, the Spanish Auror looked down, seeing his injuries in full for the first time.
His right arm was clearly broken, as he could see the white tip of the bone jutting out through the skin, and his left shoulder screamed in agony with even the slightest movement. Several broken ribs caused his breathing to send waves of agony through his body with every breath, and his hair was caked to his face with a mixture of blood, dirt, and sweat. Juan’s ragged and dirty shirt had also become soaked through with his own blood that was still flowing from several of the whip lashes on his back. His arms, chest, and face were covered in large bruises made mostly from heavy pairs of boots that had kicked at him within the past couple of hours. Even the simple action of blinking his eyes caused Juan pain, due to the extensive bruises dotting his face.
Juan shut his eyes for a brief moment, willing the sleep to come back and take him, but it did not work. Rather than receive the welcome comfort of unconsciousness, all Juan saw were the memories of his torture replaying themselves over and over in his mind.
For hours, Juan had been beaten, cursed, threatened, and abused by just about every Death Eater currently in Azkaban. It had started out with a few castings of the Cruciatus Curse, but the torture session soon evolved into much more than that. Before long, Juan was experiencing Muggle forms of torture with a few magical twists. Fiery whips lashed out at his suspended body, creating numerous gashes on his chest and back. Potions had also been shoved down his throat, each one sending a different wave of agony through his body or causing some other type of effect -- blindness, deafness, hallucinations, spasms, seizures -- whatever one could possibly imagine. Even basic Muggle assaults such as beating and kicking did not seem to be considered too low for some of his torturers.
Juan’s mind, however, did not dwell on his body’s pain. Instead, it focussed on the sound of the other person in the neighbouring cell, the one whose scream had awoken the Spanish man in the first place. Struggling through the pain, as well as fighting the difficulty of moving with both wrists bound together, Juan slowly made his way over to the wall that his cell shared with the other prisoner’s. When he had finally made it, Juan slumped against the stone wall, breathing in exhaustion regardless of the pain.
As he slumped further down along the wall, his fingers discovered a single spot that felt different than the rest of the stone structure. Looking down, Juan saw the small area where there was a hole in the wall, a hole that was surrounded by tiny, loose rocks. The sight of the hole seemed to light a fire inside him, for on the other side was a companion, someone that he could talk with. The fire spurred him on as he widened the hole, throwing the loose rocks aside with his bound hands.
After several minutes of wiggling rocks free, Juan had uncovered a hole that was large enough to fit an average human fist through. He manoeuvred himself so that he was able to lie down comfortably on the ground and peer through the hole to the other side. The sight that greeted his eyes, however, was not exactly what he had expected.
Sprawled out below the high barred window was Dana Walsh, unconscious, with blood flowing from a newly created gash on her head. Her breathing was slow and shallow, the slight rise and fall of her chest worrying Juan rather than comforting him. She looked too close to death, in his opinion.
“Dana,” he whispered, though his voice came out more as a groan of pain than an actual word. Taking a quick swallow, though the action burned his raw throat, he tried again. “Dana . . . wake up, Dana,” he muttered. He breathed a sigh of relief as his friend started to stir.
----
Dana awoke to the sound of her name being muttered, though at first she thought it was still a part of a dream, as it sounded like it came from very far away. Opening her eyes slowly, she scanned around her cell, giving a slight jump as she looked over at the right wall.
There were fingers wiggling through a hole in the stone wall, and a voice accompanied them . . . a voice that she recognised and was incredibly glad to hear.
“Dana,” muttered Juan.
She tried to reply, but at first it only came out as a strangled, “I’m here,” the volume of her torn voice barely loud enough to reach her own ears, much less across the cell. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“I’m here, Juan,” she said. “I’m okay . . .”
“Está bien, Dana,” he answered, the joy he felt at hearing her voice, proving that she was alive, evident in his voice. “Está bien . . .”
The two Aurors slipped into brief conversations, their sentences short so as not to cause too much pain from speaking. “Are you hurt?” asked Juan, worry lining his tone.
“Not too much,” answered Dana. “Just some broken ribs and a few other cuts. What about you, Juan?”
The Spanish Auror did not respond right away, and Dana could already tell the hesitancy in his answer. “Same here,” he said, but she knew that he was lying. The pain was evident in his voice.
“You’re lying,” she said, expecting him to deny it, but he didn’t.
“You’re right; I am.”
“Are you going to tell me the truth, Juan?” she asked, her voice sounding slightly choked up as she spoke, but he did not answer her. “Did they try to break you?” Dana whispered, the tone of her voice tinged with fear.
She heard Juan sigh from his cell, and she knew that she had the answer. Whether he would admit it to her or not, Dana knew now that her friend and co-worker had indeed been tortured.
“They threatened Josephina,” he muttered. “Said they would kill her if I didn’t give in.”
“What else?” she asked, knowing full well that Juan was not sharing everything with her. “Juan,” she continued when he did not answer. “What else is there, Juan?”
“He was there,” the Auror mumbled from his cell, his voice barely louder than that of a frail whisper, but Dana was able to catch every word. Those three words sent more fear travelling through Dana than anything else she had ever encountered. Voldemort had been there. Voldemort had tortured her friend.
“Juan --” Dana had started to speak, but her voice was immediately cut off as her blood froze in her veins, her mind fogging over and screams echoing in her head. The Dementor approached her cell and dwelled right outside the barred door, its rattling breath sending waves of terror coursing through her body.
“What about the fourth, My Lord?”
“She’s dead.” . . .
“Good-bye, Danielle,” said Dana, hugging her younger sister close to her. “Stay with Biannca, she’ll take care of you.” Danielle cried as she held her older sister close. She’d already lost her brother, and now Dana was having to leave her sister, too.
“I don’t want to go!” screamed Danielle.
“You have to --”
“I HATE YOU!” . . .
David, his lifeless body covered and lying in a pool of his own blood, stared up at Dana with dead and terror-filled eyes. . . .
“No,” muttered Dana. The Dementor finally left her and Juan alone. Once her mind had cleared of the fog left by the dark creature, she could hear the intense gasping for breath that came from Juan’s cell. “Juan?” she asked, calling out for her friend. “Juan, answer me.”
It was a few moments before she received a reply. “Yeah, Dana,” he sighed, “I’m fine.”
No, you’re not fine, she thought, but she decided not to voice the matter this time. Instead, she directed the conversation down a different path.
“Juan,” she said, “did you see Roger?”
----
The rays of a dying sun were again the only means of light that illuminated the dark and pain-filled chamber where the third Auror was located. Roger Folan, his arms bound tightly together and suspended over his head, stood alone in the room, gasping for breath. His bloodied and dirty shirt lay crumpled in a pile at his feet, while bruises covered his bare, sweat-glistened chest and blood flowed from freshly-applied whip lashes on his back. Blood still covered his pale face, but it had dried hard by now and was no longer flowing from the large gash across his face.
The physical pain that Roger was in, however, barely compared to the mental anguish that he had just gone through with the Death Eaters. Like Juan, he had been forced to drink dozens of potions, each concoction giving the Auror the most horrific hallucinations that one could think about. Sights of Roger’s family contorted and suffering, writhing under the wands of hundreds of tormenters, still swam strongly in his mind, an after effect of one of the nasty and violent potions.
He shook his head slightly, trying to clear away the images, but stopped moving when the door to the room swung open, banging against the wall as it completed its opening. A slight feeling of fear gripped Roger for the briefest of moments, but then it left when he realised that the Death Eater was alone. It would not be like last time.
Roger watched the Death Eater approach him, the figure’s outline clearly feminine. The fear returned to Roger as the thought of Bellatrix Lestrange entered into his mind, but it was an idea that was soon dismissed. He had seen Bellatrix before, and the woman in front of him was definitely not her.
The woman walked right up to Roger, her wand never rising from its loose position at her side. She did not seem like she was preparing to torture him, but Roger braced himself for the pain regardless. The action, though, was unnecessary. She did not raise her wand, though she stood right in front of the bound and tortured Auror, but instead, she lifted her pale hands and gently slid the white mask from her face, lowering her hood at the same time, revealing pale skin and long, luscious locks of thick black hair as she did so. Recognition dawned on Roger’s face as he met the female Death Eater's dark gaze.
“Selena?” he asked, but the name barely had time to pass his lips before the Death Eater had her lips pressed against his, silencing all speech and thought from him in an intense kiss. She ran her hands passionately through his long, blond hair, wrapping her arms around his neck and then down his sweat and blood covered chest. Her tongue sought entrance into his mouth, but Roger soon jolted back to the present reality, pulling back as far from the Death Eater as he could.
“What are you doing, Selena?” She did not answer in words, instead pressing her lips to his once more. The passion between them did not go far, however. “Selena --”
“Just give in, Roger,” muttered Selena Rosa, her voice whispering into Roger’s ear. “The Dark Lord is generous; he’ll be merciful to you if you don’t fight . . .”
“Rosa!” shouted Roger as he pulled as far away from her as his position would allow him to do. He locked his intense blue gaze with the woman before him, trying desperately to see why she was acting in the manner that she was. He had known her for years; Selena had been his partner in the Aurors up until a few months ago when she disappeared during a raid and was presumed dead. This isn’t Selena, he thought. She has to be under the Imperius Curse or something.
“What’s gotten into you, Selena?” he whispered, the answer escaping him. “Why are you acting like this? What are you doing here? I thought you were dead.” The questions and statements just kept coming from Roger, but Selena never answered a single one of them. For, no sooner had Roger paused in his assault of inquiries did the single door to the chamber bang open once more, revealing Bellatrix standing in the doorway. Without warning, she raised her wand and pointed it at Roger.
“Crucio!” she shouted. The spell hit the bound Auror directly in his chest, catching him unawares, and caused him to emit a scream as the pain tore through his body, which was also jerking in the bonds. The curse did not last very long, however.
Selena twirled around to face Bellatrix, her wand raised, and muttered a spell that sent the Death Eater hurling out of the room and into the corridor beyond, thus breaking the spell on Roger. “He’s my Auror,” hissed Selena as she glared down at Bellatrix, who was in the process of rising from the floor. She had her wand pointed at Selena, an Unforgivable Curse on her lips, but was not given the chance to utter the incantation.
“Cease, Bella,” said a high, cold voice from the corridor. At the sound of the voice, both Bellatrix and Selena lowered their wands. Bellatrix nodded her head in deference, following her Master into the room.
Roger’s entire body tensed up in terror as his eyes met Voldemort's for the first time in his life. Though he had been an Auror for several years, he had never faced a wizard so feared as the one standing in front of him right then. Adjectives did not exist in any language that could adequately describe the feelings coursing through Roger’s body as Voldemort came even closer towards him. He wanted so badly to run, flee, hide, anything but to stay where he was and be in the same room with this fearsome wizard. He had lost all sense of his surroundings as well. Nothing mattered to him, nothing entered his mind but the fact that Voldemort was there, and he was feeling more terror than he would have thought it possible for man to feel.
“My Lord, I beg your forgiveness,” said Selena, her words seeming to break the spell that Voldemort's presence had cast over Roger. Voldemort, however, did not pay any attention to the now kneeling Death Eater at his feet. His scarlet-coloured gaze and attention was instead focussed on Roger.
Though his mind and body were terrified, Roger could not keep his eyes from gleaming in a combination of hatred and defiance. He knew that he feared the Dark wizard in front of him, but he also knew that he hated him. Voldemort and his Death Eaters had destroyed so many things that he loved and taken so much from him, it was impossible for Roger to completely forgo those feelings and leave only fear and terror.
Voldemort, however, did not seem to care what feelings or emotions were running through Roger at the moment. He walked right up to the bound, bleeding Auror and locked his powerful gaze with him. “Will you serve me?” he said, the words of which sent a feeling of surprise through Roger. The combination of this, with shock and defiant hatred kept Roger from answering. Voldemort, though, wasted no time on any merciful niceties.
“Crucio,” he said.
Unlike Bellatrix's spell, Roger was prepared and had braced himself for the Cruciatus Curse this time around. The result was not a decrease in the pain, but rather he was able to fight the screaming, keeping the noise held within himself and only allowing a slight grunting, moaning noise to escape his control. Voldemort waved his wand after a short time, though, and lifted the curse.
“Will you serve me?” he said, his tone of voice making it perfectly clear that Voldemort did not really consider the statement to be a question worthy of any other answer but one. Roger, though, thought differently.
“No,” he hissed. His body still shaking from the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, Roger summoned as much defiance as he could find in himself, forcing the feelings of terror down as far as he could at the same time, and spat at Voldemort.
Voldemort simply glared at the bound Auror, his expression unreadable, though at the same time, terrifying. With a quick, fluid motion, Voldemort waved his wand and a loud crack echoed around the torture chamber, followed quickly by Roger’s screams of pain as he felt his right arm break cleanly in two, the bone breaking through the skin and blood flowing magnificently down his arm. The screams increased as Voldemort left Roger with another dose of the Cruciatus as a parting gift.
“Selena,” hissed Voldemort as he stood in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at the still kneeling figure of the former Auror, now Death Eater next to Roger’s screaming, writhing, and bleeding form. She rose quickly from her position, following her Master’s orders to leave the room, but not before she had glanced back at Roger one more time. Bellatrix, however, was still present.
“Break him, Bella,” said Voldemort, turning to his loyal servant, who raised her dark head to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze. “Break him, but don’t kill him.” And with that, Voldemort left the torture chamber, leaving Bellatrix and Roger alone.
Once her Master was out of sight, Bellatrix entered further into the dimly-lit room, an ecstatic and maniacal grin on her pale face as she looked over Roger’s slumped form, supported as it was by the chains that bound him to the ceiling in a standing position. He was gasping for breath, trying desperately to regain strength after the last assault. He did, however, spare a brief moment to look up at Bellatrix and, though he tried to hide it, Roger’s face showed his fear of the torture that he knew was coming.
Bellatrix turned away from her toy Auror to shut the door. As the thin strip of light started to disappear from beyond the corridor, the room slowly descended into complete, vast darkness.
“It’s time to play,” said Bellatrix. The door finally clanged shut and with a click, was locked into place.
~*~
And that's the end of Chapter V, and as far in the story that I've completed. Right now, Harry Potter and the Locked Door is still on an indefinite hiatus.
~Megan