Fic: Subjects and Experiments
Title: Subjects and Experiments
Author: ObnoxiousBrat
Character: Voldemort
Rating: R
Disclaimer: They belong to J.K. not me.
Summary: I haven't wrote for anything besides research papers and essays for quite a while so I had to post this. Very un-betaed so please keep that in mind if you come across bad spelling/grammar or very "un-British" language.
They scream. Some cry and some just look up from their cages with hate filled eyes as I pass through the rooms. As if their looks would really intimidate me; as if those glares would suddenly make me stop and reconsider what I was doing.
“Oh, what have I done? What is this horrible fate I’ve brought upon you? Here, here let me unchain you from the floor. Let me give you nourishment and clothing and send you on your way. No hard feelings right?”
The fucking Muggles and Mudbloods. Their will would break soon. I’d done this enough times to see those hate filled eyes cloud over with realization that they weren’t going to leave; that they’d die in this dank cellar with empty stomachs and the rank of piss and shit filling their noses.
Before all that though, before the crying began, before the challenging looks and threats started, they’d scream. Oh, the music to my ears. It was always the same; the shock, the horror, the denial that this was actually happening. Oh it would send shivers down the most modest wizard’s spine. And here they were, my little subjects, my dirty little experiments, chained to the floor, naked and writhing in pain from whatever cause I had to use to bring them down.
The first, the first were quite messy. Muggles reacted badly to Crucio; it would kill them so fast. They would die before I really got to enjoy what they had to offer me. But these, these were my best so far. A dose of Venenifer Ignis, a lovely little potion I had Severus brew for me, not too much of course, would knock them out for 18 to 20 hours. Just long enough to get affairs in order. When they came to, they’d look up to see my face on the opposite side of a cage, welcoming them to the last few weeks of their lives, how they would scream. The Muggles in disbelief in what they were seeing, this pale creature standing over them and the Mudbloods oh so shocked that I had them. The potion worked so well, some would lose use of an arm or leg, depending where the potion settled in their bloodstream but some, oh my favorite, would awake to the pain. Just enough Venenifer Ignis would cause the feeling of fire in the muscles; fire that couldn’t be put out. They could do little more than lay upon the floor, clutching at the fire and scream. Sometimes, well, I’d have a bad day and have Lucius or Evan collect another subject and after they were brought to me, I might break an ankle, cut off an ear, or limb. Do enough damage where they would hurt, be more interesting to observe but it wouldn’t affect their cycle. No, the last thing I wanted to do was help them pass sooner. What’s the fun in that? Dying so quickly. It took time to properly die and I wanted to watch, document what happened. I wanted to be able to sit on the opposite side of their cages with my glass of Firewhiskey and take in every word they said, every look they gave, and every prayer to their gods or to the great Merlin that they whispered.
I had a few new ones brought in yesterday. They were just beginning to wake up when I paid them my first visit, just beginning to comprehend what was in store for them. My favorite of the set, a young boy not much older than Potter, only 18 or 19 at the most. He was a child of one of the nameless followers that didn’t have the courage to actually voice their loyalty to me. He was so bold, he actually called out my name, begged me to let him out, questioned my motives towards “loyal” servants. Ah, it was all I could do to keep from chuckling as he begged for release with tears welling up in his bright blue eyes. I sat beside him first and just watched, just listened. The fool that he was kept trying to coax a reason out of me, an explanation for why he of all people was there. There was no reason, not really. He was an idiot, walking alone in dark corners of Knockturn Alley. If he had any sense he wouldn’t have been in the position he was, he wouldn’t have been mistaken for a dirty Mudblood. Not that I told him as much. I never speak to the filthy things. They don’t get that courtesy. I just sit and watch and offer an occasional smile to see what reaction I can drag out of them.
I sat with him for three hours and watched him go from panicked, to calm, to crazed. Oh, he was passing through the stages so quickly. It was quite marvelous, if my “followers” could bring on such reactions so quickly, it was worth losing a few non-essential dark wizards for my entertainment purposes. I made a note to try another servant soon, possibly Wormtail. I got bored with him soon enough and moved on to the next room and next subject, a young mudblood girl, crying and pissing herself with fear. My very presence evokes just wonderful reactions in them all.
Muggles are always my favorites of course. They have no idea who I am, what I am. They have the idiocy to try and fight me, to try and escape. They are so strong willed in the beginning. Unlike the Mudbloods they don’t fully realize the severity at first but they learn, oh how they learn.
They always put up the most interesting fights. They try to talk to me. Try to somehow buy time for themselves. Granted, they have no idea what they are really there for but they try to logically speak and convince me to release them before I have my evil way with them. Oh the precious ideas they come up with. Then the pulling of the chains, the screaming for help, and finally out of energy, tired and defeated, they’ll talk to themselves. I see it in all the nasty little Muggles. They’ll try and reassure themselves that someone will come, that they will be the exception and will in fact be saved by some heroic police officer or do-gooder on the street who hears their cries for help. The sad fact is that the rooms are heavy with spells to block out the screams. The sound doesn’t reach the crowded Muggle London sidewalk. The outside world passes right by unaware of the wonders going on right near their feet. The thought just tickles me to no end. Oh if my little subjects only knew how close freedom really was.
Their whole world is mine. I control the end of their lives and do so with glee. My night ends when my bottle of Firewhiskey is empty and the screams begin to give me a headache. I always let a Death Eater stay with my last visit. An extra little malaise for the night. While the others sit in darkness, their imaginations creating monsters and phantom noises in the room’s black interior, the last visited gets to spend the night subjected to torture. Counting the flogs bestowed upon them while they hang upside down from the ceiling, watching their own body fluids intermix with the waste left behind from the last subject. They get to really take in their surroundings, to become one with their last home.
I close the doors and spell them tight before ascending the stairs to my own dwelling; leaving my perfect little subjects down below for the evening. I work the night away on plans for the battle, meeting with Death Eaters to dole out tasks; stopping ever so often beside the cellar door and smile at the thought of the treasures waiting for me behind it.