Loyal | Tom Riddle

32: Confession

A/N: Yes, there's a new cover! I'm thinking about changing my face claim, so it was just a little weird to stare at her face every time I went in to edit the story lmao.

With a sigh of defeat, Alaric allowed himself to slide back down to the uncomfortable posture he'd retained for the past several days or weeks -- whichever it had been, he wasn't quite sure.  He had lost track of time long ago, and for all he knew and cared, decades had passed.  All he desired now was to lessen the pain, because there was simply so much of it all around him.  The screams of agony that echoed down the halls of the dungeon each night -- as they did now -- were a reminder to all its captives of the consequences their actions, if unfavourable to the wardens' likings.

Alaric himself had suffered much.  His wounds, which barely healed but multiplied in number after every visit to the room devoid of all good in the world, served as testament to the countless horrors inflicted upon him.  Although these battered bruises and festering cuts caused him a great deal of pain, they were nothing compared to the traumas his mind and soul had been forced to endure.

In that small, dark room at the end of the hall, a slender man dressed all in black would come through the door and seat himself next to the table upon which the prisoner of the night would be constrained to.  He would sit there, unmoving and still as a statue, for several minutes, dementedly patient and sadistic beyond belief.  Then, he would slowly remove his gloves, finger by finger, and begin a rather one-sided discussion with his company as if they were old friends--

A heavy, pounding sound rattled Alaric awake from his half-awake stupor.  Startled, he attempted to push himself up as the door flung open.

Half a dozen guards of the dark wizarding kind stormed into his tiny cell, which was suddenly filled with so many souls that it was suffocating to its sole occupant.  The wardens paid no mind to his troubles and forced him onto his feet, ignoring his sharp cries of pain as the shackles dug into his already raw wrists.  The handcuffs were removed with the flick of a wand, and for a brief moment, Alaric almost smiled at the bliss of feeling nothing but air against his blistered skin.  It was short-lived, however, as the guards forcefully shoved him forwards, causing him to fall onto his weak knees.  A bout of laughter rang out, and the wardens proceeded to jostle him back up to his feet rather roughly, with a few kicking him in the shins as he swayed back and forth, trying to get a hold of his bearings with rife unease.

"Go on, Travers," one of them barked at him.  "He's waiting for you."

"Asked fer ye specifically," another added snidely, prodding him towards the godforsaken iron door.  "What are ye waitin' fer?"

Gathering the little strength that still coursed through his veins and pumped into his tired lungs, Alaric planted one foot firmly in front of the other, stumbling down the dark corridor to the door, which was wide open.  The familiar figure in black sat with his back to the entrance, wearing the same black traveller's cloak and pair of dragon hide gloves as he always did.

"Enter," the voice within said quietly, devoid of its usual slick charm and self-satisfaction.  Once Alaric had staggered into the tiny, torch-lit chamber, the door swung shut, seemingly of its own accord.  "Sit."

The mysterious figure was, of course, referring to the table upon which he drove the feeble-minded mad and the strong-willed madder.  Obediently, Alaric pushed himself up onto the smooth, obsidian surface that he so deeply loathed.  Just the smell of the room was enough to make him want to wretch, but his fear of this man was so great that he didn't dare do anything to displease him.

Silence echoed off the walls and the ceiling and floor like some kind of dreadful, endless scream that made every hair on Alaric's body stand on end as he sat, petrified with terror.  This was one of the man before him's favourite mind games to play before he began performing his acts of true brutality.  A good five minutes passed before the dark figure cleared his throat.