Coiled (Book 1 of 2)

Of Mind Games

Malfoy Manor.

August, 1978.

"Again. Do it again. And this time, do better."

Gritting his teeth in an attempt to fight against the ever mounting, now completely excruciating pain, he shakes his head vigorously and shuts his eyes tightly, a protestation against the cruel demand.

When he doesn't obey her orders, when he hesitates and puts up this feeble display of resistance, she reverts right back to her tried and true tactics for demanding his compliance.

The sudden sensation of stabbing pain all along the walls of his inner skull, as though she's taken a sharpened ice pick to the very bone itself, "I said - I told you -"

"- I won't! Go to hell!"

He didn't mean the last part, of course not. It just slipped out; a response to the pain, another leaked thought in what's becoming a long stream.

Eyes still shut, he cowers in his seat, well aware of the way she's now leaning over him, her long black curls meeting the table as she pounds her fist forcefully against the mahogany tabletop, "... Care to rethink that sentiment?"

But before he can dare reply, she moves to punish him for his lip. It's truly frightening, truly humbling, the way she now cuts her way forward with such impossible speed and precision to a place in his mind where she knows he's most vulnerable. Sure enough, she's secured a firm grip on his brain stem and it now feels as though she's pressing the sharp side of a dagger against it, as if she'll now attempt to hack her way through until she's severed his spinal cord from his brain completely.

His loudest gasp yet this session as he shakes his head wildly from side to side, fingers curling around the arms of his chair, "- I'm - sorry -"

Another slice, this one slow and testing, not intended to actually cut through but rather to serve as a demonstration of what's possible. In response, his whole body trembles in agony and fear. As his eyes fly back open, he's met with the sight of her towering down above him, her dark eyes practically glowing with murderous intensity.

The room itself, silent as ever save for the creaking of furniture as the two of them continue to communicate telepathically.

"Sorry?"

"Yes -"

"- It's no way to talk to your superiors -"

"I know. I'm sorry -"

"... How sorry are you, exactly?"

Staring back at her, fighting against the urge to pass out from the unbearable pain, he merely shrugs weakly. Eyes narrowing at this, she resumes her prior torment. In response his whole body goes rod-straight, practically levitating up off the chair as she begins to hack away in earnest at his spinal cord.

"Completely - absolutely - totally - sorry - please -"

"Oh?"

"YES! I'm - so - so - VERY - sorry!!!"

"... Yes. Yes, you are."

Finally satisfied, she calls off her attack against him. All the pain momentarily falling away, in its place are his laboured, gasping breaths and racing heart.

This will hurt for days after -

And tonight? Tonight's going to be a living hell.

And if Reggie asks - if he asks what's wrong, what will I say?