Postal

Six

"Is she still... alive, My Lord?"

The bald man, cringing mouse-like in a corner, blinked fearfully between her and the empty vial clutched in his silver hand. In the half-light, beneath her swollen lids, she could barely make out the outline of his figure, hunched and cowering, it seemed, from someone... or something to his left. In the dark, the echo of his voice resounded throughout the room. In her half-conscious state she was vaguely aware that they were in some kind of disused airplane hangar.

"How unobservant, you are, Wormtail," came a shrill high-pitched voice, almost too high to be human. If she strained to the right, a grey, skeletal body with blood-red slits for eyes could be seen waving a gnarled finger at the man from its perch atop a crude ironworked throne. Its thin legs dangled several inches from the concrete floor, a gruesome parody of a marionette. "If you stopped simpering for five seconds you'd see the rise and fall of the breast. You see it, don't you, Lucius?"

"I do, indeed."

The last voice, startlingly close, hit her like a slap across the face. The smooth fingers of a cold hand pinched her chin, forcing her eyes up to meet the cold, pale stare of a man with fine blond hair and pointed features. Strange about his eyes, pale and unfeeling, as if undead. The hand traveled roughly down to her collarbone. Suddenly alert, she winced at the cruel pressure over her bruises and gasped in confusion as she realised she was covered with them. Her arms ached from being suspended by the shackles on her wrists and she didn't need to see through her own robes to imagine her bloodied ankles chaffed from being chained apart. Once again she felt the nausea from the drug resurge with greater force. The hand moved up to her throat as the one called Lucius studied her face imperiously.

Without dropping his gaze, he addressed the figure behind him. "She doesn't seem to remember anything. All that nonsense about some place called Beacon Hill. That rubbish about being a medical writer. Lies! A clever disguise for a mediwitch, I'll grant the Ministry that. But...perhaps we have the wrong witch? Perhaps, she's not a witch at all? She would have unshackled herself by now," he mused.

"Unless... her memory has been modified," countered the serpentine creature. "Those charms are not impervious, as we shall soon see," he hissed. "There can be no doubt that this one is the Keeper. She is the one."

The pinch of a dagger dug in uncomfortably, under her jawline. "Well, well. Ms. Plofufnik. Our little prodigal lamb. It's no wonder Severus wanted to keep you for himself. He was never one for sharing." She shivered. His sneering face was inches away from her now. He licked his lips, arching a sharp-edged brow. "But perhaps, if My Lord is generous..."

A high-pitched joyless laugh assaulted her ears. "Ah, Lucius. All in good time, all in good time. In the meantime, we will resume the questioning before we lose the full advantage of the Veritaserum. We still have uses for the girl, if your suspicions about Severus are correct."

Severus. Through the painful pulsing in her head, her thoughts wandered unchecked to the warmth of black eyes, the crooked smile of a man not accustomed to mirth, the throaty whisper of her name in her hair. No, not her name. Well. Maybe. It was terribly confusing. And there was that leering tattoo. She had seen that before, but where? She wanted desperately to hold her head, but that wasn't possible.

Lucius drew back. She sensed him recoil from fear of the red-eyed figure. She felt it herself.

Its malevolent red stare drew closer until it was all she could see. Another wave of nausea coursed through her.

"Again. Who. Are. You."

Her mind swam with images and emotions. Her mind. Addled. The contents of that vial. She struggled to form coherent thoughts, to respond. "Audrey," she croaked.

Lucius clucked and shook his head, mockingly pitying. He nodded at someone behind her. "Fair's fair. Wilkes, do the honours."

"Crucio," muttered a gruff voice lazily. Suddenly, her body jacknifed with the pain, rattling the chains.

Just as abruptly, it stopped.

"Say it," Lucius commanded, tapping the dagger threateningly against his palm.

Feeling the vise-like grip on her lungs, she choked resignedly, "Es-Esmerelda."

"Who are you working for?" Lucius spoke quietly, deliberately as he examined his neatly trimmed fingernails.

"Ho-Horizon M-Medical..." she stammered, gasping in terror. Who the hell were these lunatics? Why wouldn't they believe her? "I told you, I'm... a medical writer, I write... articles for researchers and scienÛ"

"Crucio."

The room went black and red as her limbs convulsed in searing agony.

"Enough! And no more of your lies, girl. It's no use fighting the serum." Again those fingers dug mercilessly into her cheeks. "Now. Tell us. Where is the stone? And... who is Caro?"