𝘋𝘈𝘕𝘊𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏 𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚 𝘛𝘐𝘌𝘋/𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 (English version)

Chapter 72

What is hell?

It's not just a question from theology books or dramas too complicated for real life.
It's a question every human being asks themselves at some point.
But hell is never what they told us it was.
There are no flames, no demons with pitchforks, no eternal screams.
Hell can be much quieter , made of battles we don't even dare to imagine.

Hell can be a room too dark.
A body that no longer responds.
The realization that no one is coming to save you.
Sometimes hell smells of mold and blood, echoes with the harsh creak of a door opening, feels like the filthy touch of hands you cannot avoid.

And other times, hell has a name. A face.
A voice that everyone fears.

Sarah had stopped asking what hell truly was.
She had stopped making distinctions between physical pain and mental torment.
She had even lost track of the days.
But that morning , or maybe it was night, she no longer knew , something changed.

Two tall, hooded figures appeared before her. They lifted her without a word, not even sparing her a glance.
They grabbed her arms and began dragging her down the corridor, her body scraping against the stone floor with every step.

Sarah didn't ask where they were taking her.
She already knew.
Some whispered it outside her cell in the days before.
And now, as her breath grew shallow and her knees bled with every jolt, she understood that hell wasn't the cell.
It wasn't hunger, loneliness, or fear.

Hell was behind a door.
And it wore the face of Lord Voldemort.

The Death Eaters said nothing.
Selwyn pressed a hand on the back of her neck, forcing her to stay bent over, while Dolohov , reeking of rancid sweat,  whispered obscenities in her ear, but she didn't listen.
She clung to one thought only: resist.

They moved silently through narrow, unfamiliar corridors, far from the halls where guests mingled, between walls draped in worn tapestries and blackened stone.
Finally, before a great dark wooden door, carved with ancient runes and protective symbols of dark origin, the two men paused, exchanging a glance.
And then she saw it.
Because though they seemed harsh and like servants of Lucifer himself, they were just puppets, who would crumble if touched even lightly in this grand spectacle.

When the doors swung open, the din inside abruptly fell away.
The main hall of Malfoy Manor , once the heart of the family's social receptions , had become a sanctuary of terror, a theater of power and perversion.
Everything was cloaked in total darkness, only a few flickering lights allowed the faintest glimpse of faces. At that moment, Sarah cared little about who else was there.
The long table had been pushed aside, and Death Eaters were lined up before it.

And above them all, on the throne, him.

Voldemort did not speak.
He watched her as one inspects an insect under a magnifying glass.
His fingers clasped beneath his chin, his face nearly still except for his eyes.
Those cold eyes that never blinked, seeming to read right through you as if they knew everything and felt nothing.

She was thrown to her knees, chains clinking as her body gave out.
Her hands bound behind her back trembled, but it wasn't the cold shaking her.

Bellatrix approached, radiant. She stroked Sarah's cheek with a slender finger, then licked it with languid delight.
"Mmmh... it's been too long. You're not so... arrogant anymore."

A few laughed, but that sound was sharper than any blow.
Voldemort raised a hand, and silence fell with the precision of a spell.

"Sarah Black," his voice was soft, yet void of humanity, "we do not meet as I would have wished. But some natures... rebellious ones, let's say, require correction by deeper means."