Postal

Twelve

Am I dead? Or dreaming? The dark and light colours ran together at first in her descent to full consciousness. Her muscles ached less, if not at all. Nevertheless, a moan sounded in the stillness and she knew it had been hers. Slowly, she became aware of her own raspy breaths, choked and irregular. Definitely not dead. In the near distance, the quick sound of water splashing against the side of a metal bowl gave way to a cold silence broken only by the far-off chirping of crickets at dawn.

Then she saw him. A tall, slender youth with white-blond hair approached from the side with a cool damp cloth for her forehead. The boy could have been an angel had he not borne the same arctic features as the man called Lucius. His expressionless grey eyes flickered over hers for an instant and she shuddered as the pressure of the cloth brushed her forehead and down her cheek. He abruptly drew away the cloth, studying it, red from her blood and perspiration, now one and the same. This time, what she saw in his eyes was fear. And it looked familiar.

"Don't just stand there, boy! You must demonstrate your gratefulness to be in the service of Lord Voldemort," chastised that voice, its malevolent tones now imprinted in her memory. Thwack! Lucius cracked a whip impatiently in the shadows on the left. "Finish off the job, so we may proceed with the first rite. We must be ready to move by nightfall."

Although his head was bowed, she caught his grey eyes narrowing at once, lancing a sharp sideways glance at Lucius.

"Yes, father."

As his voice cracked, she watched the damning crimson tint creep up his alabaster neck, stealing into his cheeks. His voice conveyed subservience, but in his downcast eyes there was... defiance. The knuckles around the cloth whitened as he tensed. He lowered his head and continued his ministrations as the eerie high-pitched cackle echoed in the dim chamber.

At the very edge of her line of sight, the grey, skeletal creature drew a bony hand from his dank robes and rested it on a dark shape on Lucius's forearm. "You have done well, Lucius," he hissed. "The heir of Malfoy will soon come to know his place and serve well in the ranks of my Army, as you have."

Lucius seemed to pull his face together into a mask, careful not appear to recoil as the Dark Lord lowered his voice and leaned forward, "Which reminds me, there is still the matter of your son's initiation to discuss..."

Unnoticed by anyone but the prisoner, the boy suddenly paled. The cloth felt more abrasive now against her skin, as he hastily redoubled his efforts. She winced, causing his head to jerk up. Their eyes met. Despite his previous insolent posture, she found herself full of pity. There was something in him--perhaps the confusion, the conflict--that brought to mind someone she had known in her youth. Severus.

She blinked. Looking at this boy, she had expected frostiness at the very least, and was therefore entirely surprised by his wide-eyed, uncertain expression. He opened his mouth as if to... apologise?

Thwack!

Another whip crack and the boy fell to the side as Lucius roughly pushed his son out of the way. "That's enough, Draco!" Her eyes darted from the indignant glare of the son to the lecherous stare of the father as he cupped her face forcefully in his gloved hand, pulling her forward. The shackles on her wrists and ankles fell clanging against the concrete floor and she swayed weakly. She heard the whip drop to the ground as he deftly drew another weapon. A blunt wooden tip poked against her jugular, causing her to pinch her eyes shut.

"As for you, witch," he snarled venomously, "there will be no false moves, and no..."--he smirked--"corrupting of my son. Not yet, anyway." He turned momentarily to the red-eyed creature. "My Lord?"

Its wrinkled, lipless mouth curled into a toothless sneer and nodded assent.

"Imperio."

Her body shook violently. Her mind and spirit, too, bucked helplessly as he and the Dark Lord drew closer. She struggled against their words, but all her resistance was countered with a searing pain as she was rent asunder. It was no dream. It was a nightmare.