splinched

Chapter 3

A/N: Trigger warning, mention of rape and slight torture.

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Narcissa Black was an estranged woman.

Perfection in the way of her submission to higher authority members, a smile set on her face at all points and times. But a mind that has yet to settle.

The sole idea of rebellion contradicted her entire existence, only ever succumbing to what she had been told, verbal questioning completely out of the picture.

Her mind remained roused.

Her respect for Muggle-borns and those of similar lineage remained lower than the six feet under she would wish they laid, as their burden to greater society was a nuisance to maintain. But her curiosity remained untreated. Why was it they hadn't been put out yet?

Clare Snow's perspective of Narcissa was skewed at best, her bias clouded her mind's judgment of facts. But that didn't mean she was necessarily wrong, only not entirely correct.

But an ignorant mind was nothing short of slow death, though maybe a blissful one at that. She wondered when she began to care more about the status quo than living to her full potential. It was possibly lost amongst the hours of torture she endured each day, but she wasn't quite bought on that yet. It seemed rather simple.

Nevertheless, it was where she stood at that point.

So what did she know about Narcissa Black exactly? The answer was nothing, she knew absolutely nothing about the by-standing, small-minded female Lord Voldemort was speaking of.

"Narcissa didn't really run in my circle," she spoke, eyes gazing towards his own but vision out of focus as her mind ran for an adequate answer, "as I'm sure you have already confirmed."

His throaty chuckle alone sent a shiver down her spine, but his approaching steps allowed for her entire body to began quivering but, not in fear. As Clare drew the sheet closer up to her body, his footsteps halted, directly left to the bed she was assigned. A meter if not less between the two bodies.

"Now, now my filth, you have yet to answer my question," his words expressed alongside the movement of his right hand finding her forearm, thumb poking at the wrist that was almost entirety see-through due to her current accommodations, "now I will ask again, what do you know of Narcissa Black?"

This time his thumb did not remain still over the veins stretching over her pale skin but moved leftward towards the bruises that had formed due to the stinginess control over her restraints.

Which were oddly not present. Her restraints were not tethering her to his castle any longer, she could leave, escape if she wished if she willed herself en—

The immediate pressure forced upon the blue skin of her arm was worse than she anticipated, worse than the actual constraint of her manacles to begin with. Enough to elicit a loud enough scream that ran throughout her mind's thought process as well as the stone walls of her dungeons, and halted all previous discoveries.

But they did say bruising was a sure sign of healing, though Clare wondered if everlasting pressure on a wound would allow for healing to even begin its process, or if the sight of the bruise was just a tease. A joke that she could ever begin to think there was an escape from this.

Or maybe it was a sign.

Maybe she just hadn't found the right wound to apply pressure on.

-

Being dressed by house-elves was a similar feeling to getting one's yearly physical exam at the doctor. Professional, but still too personal. If you could even consider what she was wearing to be worthy of the term "dressed."