Betrayal of the Black

thirty-one

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"I REALLY HATE TO DO this," said Moody. "This will be a whole lot better for you, if you just tell me what the Dark Lord is planning."

Time was still lost to her. The last time he had used the Cruciatus Curse had ended hours, or minutes ago. He was going to start again, she knew.

She also knew that the only way to stop him would be to tell him of what knew of Voldemort's plans. She knew that this pain would end, that it would all be over, if she told him.

But she knew that she couldn't—wouldn't—tell them. If they didn't kill her after they got what they needed, she'd be deemed a traitor by Voldemort and death would be better than what he would do. She was not going to say anything.

And when she kept her mouth shut, Moody knew that too. And the pain started again.

Once again, the world became nothing but that pain. She thought, that after the first time, she might get used to it. But there was no getting used to the Cruciatus Curse.

The first four times he had used the curse, the room had been filled with nothing but her screams. By the fifth, her pleading had joined the mix.

She had always believed that there would never be someone she would beg to. Begging was something that only a coward would do, when there were no other options left but to get on your knees and plead.

She was not on her knees, but she was still entirely at their mercy. She convulsed as much as possible against the chains. She would try to pull her knees to her chest, only for them to be restricted by the chains. She tried to pull her arms down to hug herself, only for her wrists to stay manacled above her head.

There were the sorry little pleas that escaped her mouth; the repeated please, please, please's, the stop, stop, please stop's. The agony that wouldn't end unless she talked about the Dark Lord's plans.

It tore her apart. There were never-ending tears falling down her face. The screams that soon turned soundless after her throat turns red, finally a show that she's in pain. She wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball against the floor, but her restraints worked against her.

When the pain stopped again and Moody asked her again, like he always did when he stopped, "Will you speak now, Celestia?"

And, like she always did, she responded, "Never," and spat at his feet.

That was either when he left to let her sleep, or when he would say again, "Crucio!" and the cycle started over again.

Again, and again, when she lost all semblance of reality, when she began to lose the name of her friends, her family, she remembered her own because that had to be enough. It had to be.

Because she would survive this. She had to survive this. For her friends that she remembered when the torture would come to a halt. For those four names that would slip away through those hours of pain.

Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini. Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini. Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini. Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini.

For them, she would survive.

In those hours that she should consider peace were the some of the worst. She could remember the maltreatment, but there was not a mark on her skin, no sign that the pain had actually occurred.