Leoben knows what falling entrails sound like. (ex_notnice309) wrote in an_ill_wind, @ 2009-09-24 23:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | - 1980/09 september, dorcas meadowes, leoben yaxley |
Who: Dorcas Meadowes and Leoben Yaxley
When: Thursday, 24 September 1980; night
Where: Ben's stables
What: Brain washing.
Rating: Sad and more sad.
Status: Completed log
Forgoing the sleeping potion that had been offered the previous night had been a poor decision on Dorcas's part, but that was a realisation her mind could no longer reach. Not when it was consumed with thoughts of betrayal and guilt and grief and self-loathing and so many other painful emotions that confused and overwhelmed her. She had betrayed her closest friends. Fabian had betrayed her. Reason and logic were beyond her mental capabilities and thoughts that would have been abhorrent to her just a week earlier were now easily accepted as truths by her exceedingly sleep-deprived mind. Fabian had known. Had he helped them? Had he told them where to find her family, how easily it would be to draw her out by threatening them? Edmund and Neville didn't bother with hiding, but Christian... His house was warded by Dumbledore and he actually heeded her warnings to be careful and she couldn't figure out how he could have been taken in the first place. Except Fabian was included in the wards. He could have walked right into the house, taken her baby brother and handed him over to his Death Eater friend. To be used against her. To be tortured and killed and torn to pieces and... And that was a thought that broke her heart. She should have been angry with him, but anger was an emotion that suddenly seemed to take more effort than she possessed. Grief and guilt were so much easier to process. She deserved this. Or at the very least she had brought it upon herself and was it any wonder that her friends hadn't come to rescue her when she'd proven that she didn't deserve their help with her weakness and her traitorous tongue? There was still some sliver of rational thought in her mind that tried to tell her that no one deserved this but it was quickly overwhelmed before it could truly assert itself. She was far past the point of simple exhaustion to some kind of delirium and all she could do was lie on the ground, staring blankly at the wall. Twice, the need for sleep overpowered her fear and her pain and her guilt but her nightmares were an even more horrifying place than reality. Her nightmares were a place where it was her own friends who were wielding implements of torture against her. Where they held her down and cut her and cursed her while she screamed and begged and pleaded for mercy and then she was awake and still screaming and shaking and vowing never to let herself fall asleep again. Leoben was far more grim-faced today. It slightly less pleasant business. He did not have a glass of scotch. He was not wearing a tie. His pockets were empty but for his wand. The clothes worn, though still highly professional, were not things he generally wore any more. Not to business. They were disposable. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. And in his left hand, carried loosely, was his suitcase. Not his only suitcase by any means. It was the suitcase Evangeline had given him on their anniversary, actually. With a hidden compartment, magically enlarged. It was bigger on the inside. There were several of his knives, his favourites and a few of the ones he'd received for his birthday. They had to be broken in. He threw the stable door open and tossed his briefcase onto one of the tables. There was no greeting this evening. No polite good evening's or inclines of the head. Tonight, Dorcas Meadowes was not a person. She was a project. He was not angry. There was simply a grim determination. A levitation charm, silent but as effective as ever. Leoben did not waste time. He worked methodically, but he was not slow by any means. He lowered her onto the cold, smooth table. "Stay," he commanded, demanding, insistent. Dorcas was well acquainted with fear by now. It had been the prevailing emotion even above all else for the last few days, but the terror that consumed her at Yaxley's entrance was greater than anything she had felt before. Even through her exhausted, near-delirious state she could tell the change in Yaxley's demeanour. The absence of what was becoming his customary greeting. His dress. The suitcase. And then the table. The table that had figured so prominently in every last one of her nightmares. She was not so foolish that she did not know what it was for and the sudden feel of the cool metal against her arms and through her thin shirt prompted a panic she could not control. She didn't have the strength to stand, not any more. Not after two days without water, three without food and five nights without any real sleep. But panic was still a powerful thing and it was only a moment after she had touched the table that she was desperately trying to push herself across the smooth surface, as far away from Yaxley as she could possibly manage. "No. Please no," she begged, looking at him with wide, tear-filled eyes and an expression that was every bit that of a terrified animal as she curled away from him. Leoben paid no mind to her panic whatsoever. She was on the table, anyway. She was following commands, and beyond that, he didn't particularly care. He flicked his wand at the table and turned his attention back to his briefcase. These weren't just any tables, of course. He did not like to actually have to touch his victims to restrain them after all. The tables did it for him. Upon the wave of his wand, a cold set of chains slithered out, wrapping themselves around ankles and knees and wrists, pressing tightly into skin and then pulling down back into the table. They didn't yield, not really. It was slow and steady, hardly remarkable but for the fact that they were wound around a person, binding her to the table. Leoben, in the meantime, paid no mind to the process. He was busy pulling things out of his briefcase. Veritaserum. Dragon-hide gloves (for his complete distaste for touching lesser beings). A curved skinning knife. A much larger blade. He barely looked up. If Dorcas had any idea of the table's true properties, she would have fought to get off the thing entirely rather than just push herself to the far end. But it was too late for that now, she realised as the shackles wrapped around her limbs and pulled her onto her back with a strength she could not come close to matching no matter how hard she fought. And she did, struggling and flailing to free herself as hard as she could possibly manage until she was pinned to the table. Her body had long since betrayed her with its weakness and all she could do was plead in her desperation. "Please. Don't do this. You don't- I'll leave. I'll leave the country and you'll never see or hear from me ever again, just please don't do this." Ben didn't seem to hear her, instead pulling his gloves on, flexing them experimentally and then reaching for the thin vial of veritaserum. He held it at eye level, as if to check how much he had exactly and then moved to her side, uncorking it. "You are going to drink this," he said simply. "You do not want me to have to make you." He sounded very sure of the fact. He did not have to motion towards the briefcase. Dorcas had never been particularly adept at potions but she knew enough to be aware that there were any number of things that could have been in the vial he was holding that would make what remained of her life very, very miserable. Poison was actually the last of her concerns as suddenly it seemed as if it might be a blessing in all of her sheer terror. If she was going to die - and there was no longer any real question of that fact in her mind despite her pleas - it would at least be quick. But she did not believe for a moment that was Ben's intention. Her lips remained firmly shut as she turned her head away from Ben, but the horrifying thought that her nightmares were likely mild compared to what this monster could dream up to inflict upon her and the knowledge that he would make her take it one way or another quelled her fleeting thoughts of resistance. A moment later and she turned her head back, this time with her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her mouth open to take the potion as she silently prayed he had not somehow manage to discover the cruciatus in liquid form. It was not as if she had any other choice. Leoben put the vial to her lips and tipped it back, letting it all pour into her mouth before recorking it and tossing it into the still-open suitcase. He only lingered long enough to ensure that she had swallowed before moving away again. It was only a moment. Enough time for him to reach for the skinning knife, well used and always sharp. Counted amongst his favourites, certainly. A well practised hand held the gutting tip where her collarbones met. It was one fluid movement, accompanied by the sound of cloth tearing. Ben idly shoved the tatters of her shirt out of the way, giving him a wider canvas on which to work. It was all work that would have to be done eventually. It was not, however, at the top of his priority list. Again, he moved to the side, only to come back with his wand. "Who are your closest friends?" he asked quietly. It hardly sounded like a question coming from his lips, but a question it was. It was truth he needed, that only the veritaserum would provide him. This time she recognised the tasteless veritaserum for what it was when it hit her tongue, although she was not certain whether to be relieved that it was not some insidious potion to heighten her pain or horrified that she would once again be forced to betray her friends. If they were even still that after what they undoubtedly heard the night before. And then she saw the knife. A whimper of fear escaped her throat as he brought it towards her neck and god, what was he going to do to her? But again there was a strange, seemingly wrong feeling of relief as all he did was tear her shirt and her mind was swimming with confusion. The cold air across her exposed chest (and more than a little fear) brought a shiver to her body and all she could think was how vulnerable and exposed she felt. And strangely self-conscious about the long scar across her stomach. The scar he had given her. At least those were her confused, addled thoughts until he started asking questions and her mouth opened to answer without a second thought. "Edgar Bones. Alastor Gumboil. Gideon and... Gideon Prewett. Frank Longbottom. Sirius Black. Greta Catchlove. Dedalus Diggle. Emmeline Vance. Octavius Pepper." The absence of Fabian's name from the list still caught her by surprise, but she couldn't still think of him as a friend any more. Not after what he had done to her. Leoben gave something of a nod and then swished his wand. "Obliviate," he said quietly. And then he was in her head, digging through memories. He pried his way through her mind, going back as far as school and then latching onto her first train ride. Edgar Bones first. Slowly, methodically, he tore Mr Bones from her life. He smudged over childish pranks and hair pulling, Quidditch, train rides, summers, weddings, visits, Edgar's children. He went through it over and over again until he was gone. He didn't bother to fill him in. He was simply gone. Gideon was next, the same slow, methodical process, stripping them carelessly away, tearing him from her. The other he left, if only because she hadn't listed him. If he had to, he could always go back and take him too. And then Catchlove. Longbottom. Gumboil. Pepper. Vance. Diggle. He only hesitated at Sirius Black. It was his distaste for their activities, the disgusting blood traitor and his halfblood pet. But after a moment, he tore that away too, if in a somewhat more hurried fashion. He took away hugs and shared dinners and long nights spent together. He took away tears and comforts. He erased jokes and pranks and laughter. And then slowly, he went back, not to fill in, but to stretch the moments of hardship. To emphasise them. Failed tests and quizzes, tears, anger and hurt. He pulled them all to the front, forcing those moments of despair to remain, traumatic and hurtful. When he was finished, he felt tired with the effort, exhausted from focusing his energy so completely. Leoben lowered his wand and looked at her again. "Who are your friends?" he asked, sounding nearly as tired as he felt. It took a moment for Dorcas's slowly functioning mind to pull itself out of the haze of the obliviation spell and when it finally did, she felt so miserably lonely she could hardly think. She was cold and alone and afraid and she just wanted to go home. Except she didn't know where home was any more. Alice Longbottom's? No, she had only ever been unhappy there, hiding in fear. Being kept as a virtual prisoner, unable to leave the house. James Potter's? Ugh. She couldn't stand him and didn't know why she had ever stayed with him in the first place. Her flat had been burnt down, her entire family was dead. She had nowhere she could go. Her only friend in the world had betrayed her. There was no one left who would take care of her. No one who would hold her and keep her safe and the greatest kindness she could seem to remember was that of a simpering house elf who had brought her soup and water. Tears filled her eyes again, this time not of fear but abject misery and loneliness as she turned her face away from Yaxley out of shame for what a pathetic life she had led. Nothing but one failure after another. Nothing but a series of misfortunes. The emptiness in her mind, the absence of friends and happiness was horrifying. "I don't have any," she replied in a soft, watery voice. Leoben nodded. "No, you don't," he agreed. He sighed and then added, more commandingly: "Gobbo, scotch." A crack resonated in the room and the house elf scurried toward it's master with a glass of scotch. Leoben took it and had a long swallow. Such extensive work really did tire him and he wasn't finished. Not yet. He gave a dismissive wave and conjured a chair for himself, allowing himself some comfort while he carried out the next part. He, for the moment, removed his gloves and draped them neatly over his thigh. He didn't need them right now. "Do you know why?" he asked. Dorcas didn't want to talk about this. She didn't want to talk about how lonely she was, how pathetic she was, how empty and meaningless her life had been. She tried to think of anyone who might have even come close to being a friend in her life - besides Fabian, at any rate. Dung had been nice to her a few times. Sturgis Podmore had too. But really they just seemed to feel sorry for her. And how could she blame them? She was feeling pretty sorry for herself right now too. Yaxley's question was answered with a dull and weak, "No," as she kept her face turned away from him. She certainly had her theories. No one wanted to be friends with someone who was so unhappy all the time. And the closest she could have claimed to friends were the other members of the Order but all she did was yell at them and cause scenes and get herself in trouble and she didn't know why Dumbledore would have ever wanted her to be a part of the Order in the first place. She didn't even know why she had thought someone might come and rescue her when clearly they were better off without her. But none of that could be said with enough certainty under the veritaserum. She didn't know why no one liked her. Only that they didn't. Leoben sipped his scotch, going over his words carefully. Of course she didn't know why. She was not supposed to know why. He only needed her to admit as much to herself before he proceeded. And now she had. "I will tell you," he said quietly, idly crossing his legs. "You are a meddling child, Dorcas. You insist on dabbling in other people's plans. In people that are born better than you. People who are far more intelligent and know better. You are only a nuisance to the people you try to surround yourself with and that is why they refuse to be with you. Your loneliness is your own doing, Miss Meadowes. Perhaps, it is not entirely your fault. Certainly it would be highly optimistic of me to expect more from a halfblood. You are not gifted with the same capabilities as those of better lineage. You lack refinement and stature and it makes you weak and needy. You do not fit and you have defied the Dark Lord for far too long. You belittle and scar the greatness that could be our world, Dorcas Meadowes and that is why you will always be alone." He paused to again, sip his scotch and chew on a bit of ice for a moment. To give her a moment to think and digest his reasoning. "Do you agree?" he asked finally. "That it is, in large part, your scattered lineage that inhibits your usefulness?" Dorcas wanted nothing more than to just curl onto her side and be left alone to her misery and self-pity instead of having it all laid out so plainly for Yaxley to see. She felt ashamed and humiliated and she was still exposed and he was talking and her damaged mind struggled to keep up with what he was saying. To piece things together through the holes and the sleep-deprivation and for every one thing he said that gave her some thought of disagreeing, there were two more statements that she could not deny. Every one of his words seemed to chip away at what fragments of self-worth she still retained. She meddled. She was a nuisance. He still could not fully destroy her belief that blood purity did not matter, but for the first time in her life there was some doubt in her mind. Should not matter, perhaps. But it clearly did. And if everything else he said was true... She was weak and needy. She was alone. And she no longer knew what to make of any of it. Did she truly have no friends because she was a halfblood? She was confused and she did not know what to say. But he had asked a question and that demanded an honest answer. "I don't know," she replied before biting down hard on her own lip, sure that a punishment would come for her uncertainty. But she didn't know. Not any more. Maybe if her mother hadn't been a Muggle, she would have learnt how to fit in better? She would have had some friends. But she loved her mother. She couldn't blame her for... all of this. Could she? Did it even matter any more? It was overwhelming and finally Dorcas just let out a frustrated, pained cry. Leoben considered her for a moment, considered forcing an answer out of her. He had come here tonight with a certain agenda in mind. That was why he'd brought his knives and gloves in the first place. He had planned on making this long and slow and torturous. But this, this was better, he was sure. And one could not be so grounded that a deviation from the original plan could not be allowed. One had to be able to improvise. And so, a somewhat extemporaneous finish for the night. After all, she could not be lying. "That is all right," he said softly, vanishing the chair he'd conjured and started repacking his briefcase. "You will know before the end." His hand lingered over his knives and he, almost impulsively, put the skinning blade on the table near her face, four or five inches away. Enough that she could see, but not nearly enough for her to touch or disturb. A reminder, but that was all. The other, he set in it's place on one of the magnetic strips. That was all for tonight. Leoben turned and left in silence, only extinguishing the lights before he let the door bang closed. Yaxley's sudden departure came as a surprise, but the relief she expected at being left alone did not come. She had not reached a point where she wished for his company over her solitude, but neither did she want to be alone any more, she quickly realised as soon as the door had slammed shut. It was as confusing as everything else was in her mind and she could no longer make any real sense of her feelings or reactions. She could no longer do anything besides wallow in her own misery and think of what an utter failure her life had been as Yaxley's words wound their way through the holes in her mind. And yet again she was left to wonder why he didn't just put her out of her misery. Why he left her there, chained to the horrible cold metal table that she didn't think she would never be getting off of. The only question was how long he would leave her there before he killed her. Before the knife that she could do nothing but stare at was drawn across her throat or driven into her chest or... or... She didn't know. And that too was another thing that was tearing at her mind. Too many days and nights spent anticipating death. Expecting that his next visit would be the last one only to be left even more confused and bewildered by his behaviour. Except this time was different. Because this time she was starting to wish he would just kill her. It was not as if she had anything to live for anymore. Then again, she was not certain she ever had. |