❝𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲?❞
❝𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦.❞
𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥 had a few, perhaps a little or more than a palm of qualms in his life. First up was the whole "The Boy-Who-Lived" shenanigans, then there was an ungodly am...
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LXXXVI. A SAINTESS'S FRUITLESS ATTEMPT
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"And I don't need you to tell me what that means
I don't believe in that stuff anymore"
DAYS STRETCHED INTO WEEKS, EACH one bleeding into the next in a haze of agony and hopelessness. Marjorie couldn't remember the last time she'd seen sunlight. Her prison within Malfoy Manor was a tomb — cold, suffocating, and filled with dread. Time was meaningless in the dim, damp cell where the air smelled of mildew and despair. The stone walls, slick with moisture, pressed in on her from every side. Every breath she took felt like it came with a struggle, as if the very atmosphere was weighing her down, as if her tormentors had woven their malice into the air she was forced to breathe.
Bellatrix Lestrange came to her with the regularity of a nightmare. Every visit from the deranged witch was a dance with death, though Marjorie often wished it would end in her death already. This was getting rather repetitive. Almost always Bellatrix would seem delighted by her suffering, whether out of boredom, personal vendetta, or the hope of extracting valuable information about Harry's plans, the Order's plans, or any shred of knowledge that might please Voldemort. It was to the point that Marjorie's once-pristine clothes were now rags, clinging to her bruised and battered form, stained with the remnants of her blood, sweat, and tears.
"Tell me!" Bellatrix screeched one night, yanking Marjorie upright by her matted hair. The wild-eyed witch forced Marjorie to meet her gaze, her face just inches away, reeking of madness.
"I don't know!" Marjorie rasped, the words barely more than a whimper. Tears cut hot trails down her dirt-streaked cheeks as Bellatrix's sharp nails dug into her scalp, sending sharp, electric waves of pain through her skull. "I-I don't know anything, please!"
Bellatrix sneered.
"Lies!" she hissed, her voice venomous. "You're protecting Potter. I know you are." Her grip tightened painfully, her dark eyes dancing with sadistic glee. "Crucio!"
The curse hit Marjorie like a thousand knives plunging into her flesh at once. Her screams filled the cell, echoing in the stone chamber, as her body convulsed uncontrollably. Agony shot through her every nerve, every muscle. There was no escaping it. It was as if her skin was peeling off, her bones cracking, her very soul being pulled apart.
"Please!" Marjorie begged, her voice raw, her vision blurring. "I don't know anything!"
The torture was unbearable, but Marjorie clung to her one defense — her mind. Occlumency had been drilled into her from a young age, a twisted gift from her father's obsessive control. Over the years, she had honed it into a shield, a wall behind which she could hide her thoughts. And now, it was her salvation. As Bellatrix's Cruciatus Curse wracked her body with pain, Marjorie retreated into the depths of her own mind, her consciousness folding in on itself, blocking out the intrusion.
