|beholder_mod (beholder_mod) wrote in hp_beholder,|
@ 2008-04-10 18:04:00
|Entry tags:||fic, gregory goyle, rabastan lestrange, slash|
FIC: 'Minotauros' for spidermoth
Rating: R for violence
Pairings: Rabastan Lestrange/Gregory Goyle
Word Count: 7,500
Warnings: Violence, torture, rape (not between pairing)
Summary: Being sentenced to life in Azkaban should be punishment enough for almost any crime. But as it is, prison power games make sure any sentence is topped with a little extra that makes things even more unbearable. There is only one way to get though: fight and win, or lose and despair. Azkaban is not for the weak, Gregory Goyle already knows that when he finds Rabastan Lestrange abused and violated by his fellow prisoners.
Author's Notes: Since this is about getting the un-loved characters some loving, I chose two of the most unlikely ones and tried to come up with a story that would let them be together with at least some kind of proper reason for such a strange pair. I hope I managed. Thanks to my lovely beta, X.
The first time Gregory Goyle saw Rabastan Lestrange without clothes on, Mr Lestrange was tied up and stretched over one of the low basins in the middle of the cold communal bathroom down the third floor corridor in Azkaban's left wing. The Dangerous Criminals wing.
Mr Lestrange's legs were spread, his head wasn't visible, bent over the pale porcelain as he was. His long, dark hair was brushing over the floor, tangled and wet. A mixture of semen and other, less attractive fluids were smeared over Mr Lestrange's arse, dripping down his legs and pooling around his feet. It seemed as if several men had had their fun with him. Also, from the look of things, Mr Lestrange had not participated willingly. There was a stench of shampoo and blood and defeat in the room; a stench that had nothing to do with the physical and quite unappealing traces the other men had left.
At the muffled sound of Gregory's bare feet on the stone floor, Mr Lestrange jerked. 'No more. God! Please, no more.' Mr Lestrange's voice was low and hoarse and tear-filled, raw from the screams that might have left him earlier. It was as if they still echoed between the icy, tile-clad walls.
Gregory had frozen, standing just inside the door. His large frame almost filled the door opening. He knew very well that things like this was going on but he had never seen the pathetic results. Oh, there were so many issues which were paid for in this or in similarly repulsive ways; so many petty revenges sought out. At times, Gregory (who wasn't smart, but was smart enough to know he wasn't) was really glad he was nothing but muscles and a brain that allowed him to find pleasure in simple things. No one ever included him in their plans, and no one dared berate him for keeping out of the power games which were inevitable anywhere Death Eaters and their minions gathered. Even in a place like Azkaban.
Especially in a place like Azkaban, it seemed.
'I'm not...' he croaked, not wanting to see the other man's degradation. 'I had nothing to do with that.' Gregory wasn't sure what to do. He took a step closer, something that made Mr Lestrange whimper. 'Do you want me to... get help?' he asked, insecurely, knowing that the only help they'd get was one of the guards dragging Mr Lestrange off to his cell and lock him up. Adrian Pucey had spent two days with a concussion and a broken finger after a beating, that much Gregory knew. In Azkaban one helped oneself because the guards most certainly didn't, as if just being a prisoner wasn't punishment enough.
'Just... get me out of here,' Mr Lestrange managed. 'Please.' Any arrogance the man had ever had was gone and only desperation was left.
But it was a relief to be told what to do. Gregory was used to that. It made things easier. Sometimes, it was hard to have a mind that denied one to make the tiniest connections between facts to create logic. Of course Mr Lestrange didn't want to stay here like this, any fool could see that. Gregory shook his head as if to make the straying information end up in the same place and allow him to react.
When pointed in the right direction, Gregory had no problems acting. In an instant he was next to Mr Lestrange, untying the ropes around his ankles. Gregory wondered where the perpetrators had got them. Ropes were not allowed. Too many unfortunate deaths. Mr Lestrange startled at the touch and a thin sound, like that of a cornered animal, left him.
'Shhh,' Gregory said, 'I'm not going to do... that. I'm helping.'
'Yes. Thank you,' Lestrange whispered, as if he had no voice left.
Gregory stood. 'I am going to untie your hands now.' If it scared Mr Lestrange to be touched, it was probably clever to tell him what he was doing.
'Thank you,' Lestrange repeated, sounding as if he was trying some kind of normality.
Kneeling in front of the man, Gregory impatiently tore at the ropes. Mr Lestrange smelled acridly of fear. His wrists had red welts on them. Just over the knuckles, the rope had worn through the skin. Carefully, Gregory pulled Mr Lestrange's hair away from his face.
Lestrange looked up. His face was tear-streaked, and he had a puffy eye. Somebody's fist had left a red, bruised mark on his cheekbone. It would be purple tomorrow.
'Do you think you can stand?' Gregory asked. 'I can help you, but if you'd rather I didn't touch...' Gregory found Mr Lestrange to be a bit like Draco. A sensitive Thoroughbred. He didn't think Draco would have anybody touching him when he was hurt, either. Yes, treating him like Draco... that would be the best approach.
Lestrange seemed to try to get up, but he slumped back over the basin, letting out a pained cry. 'Please?'
Gregory knew very well how intimidating he looked, a fact that had kept him out of the conflicts the entire year he had been confined. He hesitated, wanting to reassure the wounded and apparently scared man in front of him. 'Is it all right if I... carry you? Gregory breathed in deeply, a grave mistake since Mr Lestrange really didn't smell too well, not his own doing of course. 'Maybe you would like to... can I help you... wash?'
Lestrange let out a strangled, almost hysterical laughter, between laughing and crying. 'Oh Salazar, please!'
There were more laughing sobs, and Gregory was at a loss what to do. He waited until the sobbing died out. 'Very well. I can do that.' Reluctantly, he placed a hand the size of a dinner plate on Mr Lestrange's shoulder. Lestrange hissed involuntarily, but since nothing else happened, Gregory slid his arm around Lestrange's waist and helped him straighten up. That made him cry out again. 'You are not hurt?' Gregory asked. 'I mean... apart from...' Apart from the rape and the beating and the wounds on wrists and ankles... It was beyond Gregory how people would want to do things like that. Beating people up because one was angry at them or disagreed with them, that he understood. But this... how could anyone take pleasure in an unwilling victim? It had probably something to do with making Mr Lestrange feel bad, that much was clear. A power game. Gregory didn't understand those, either, although he should have, being Draco Malfoy's minion. Not even seven years in Slytherin house had taught him more than "Pure-blood good, mud-blood bad". How, exactly, that applied to Mr Lestrange, Gregory failed to appreciate.
'No. I... don't think so.' Lestrange sounded if he was trying to be brave.
Gregory recognised the tremble in the voice and the less than determined words. Yes, this was quite like Draco Malfoy. He supported Mr Lestrange with the other arm as he stood - or more like hung - in Gregory's embrace. He had never realised Mr Lestrange was so small. Then again, everybody else was small compared to Gregory. His upper arms were the size of other men's thighs and he stood almost a head taller than the tallest of the other prisoners, except for Thorfinn Rowle who was just as large and mean as Gregory, just older and slower. It seemed, however, to comfort Mr Lestrange more than to scare him, to be close to the physical force Gregory was.
'I'll be careful. I promise,' Gregory said, and lifted Mr Lestrange as easily as if he'd been a child. It made the man let out renewed whimpering. Gregory swore somebody would pay for this. Painfully. Mr Lestrange was of the Inner Circle, and had to be treated with respect. Gregory could feel his low-simmering anger rise, furnace-hot.
'Who did this to you?' he growled as he took the few steps towards the closest shower cubicle. 'I'll see to it that they will have a few very pain-filled weeks.'
'No. It'll just get worse. Don't, Goyle. Please?' Mr Lestrange's hands were trembling and it sounded as if he was going to cry again. Gregory didn't know what to do with that. Crying was a sign of weakness.
'Why?' Gregory asked and put Mr Lestrange down on the floor, something that made him wince.
'Because you have not been... involved before. You are going to have a hard time if you interfere.' Rabastan Lestrange leaned against the tiles, still with Gregory's arm around his waist. He groaned, as if the pain was overwhelming.
'Oh,' Gregory said. He understood that. It would be a declaration of war if he did anything. Something akin to a thought of clarity struck. 'I think I am already involved,' he said. 'Just by helping you.' He reached around Mr Lestrange and turned on the water. He didn't care that his underpants got wet; there was no way Mr Lestrange could do this by himself.
The water was cold at first and made both men gasp. It didn't bother Goyle. Physical displeasure didn't mean anything to him. He held Mr Lestrange as he turned the taps to make the water warmer. 'Is it all right?' he asked worriedly. The man in his arms felt so fragile.
Lestrange just gasped and Goyle had a suspicion he was crying. 'It'll be all right,' he said, helplessly, at a loss what to do. He couldn't even imagine how it must be to be ravaged like that. Gregory would have ripped the perpetrators apart before it had happened to him.
'I don't think so,' Rabastan Lestrange managed, sobbing wetly with his face turned upwards into the stream of warm water. 'They'll do it again.'
Something inside Gregory snapped. He had never bothered with fairness, just with strength and power, neither had he attached himself to someone who looked remotely weak. But the older man's tears and pain... it didn't make sense. Rabastan Lestrange was a man to be respected: old pure blood, finer than any other man confined in Azkaban. For the first time in his life, something akin to a plan flowered and grew rapidly; so fast Gregory could hardly comprehend he was able to think something up so complicated. 'No they won't,' he said firmly, with all the conviction he could muster. 'I'll see to it that it won't.' The words were barely audible in the noise from the shower, but they were there, formed and spoken and most definitely meant.
Something in Gregory's voice obviously convinced Mr Lestrange. He bent his head and sighed, relaxing against Gregory's shoulder. He didn't say anything. Gregory took it as a sign that he was in charge at the moment. He understood. Draco had been like that too: conflict left him either mean-spirited and weak, or helpless and weak, at least for a while, until Draco had thought up something awful for revenge. Gregory liked that. Mr Lestrange would feel better soon, and he would help Gregory take this out on the wizards who had participated.
'Let us get you clean and back into the cell,' Gregory said, deciding he had to manage things until Mr Lestrange was ready. His words elicited another relieved sob from the man.
'Please,' Mr Lestrange said and let Gregory do exactly that.