HP&SB: The Deathly Hallows

Chapter 15

Each step I took was heavier than the last. 

The Dark Lord had no concern for my limp or broken arm, and both were forced to move regardless of any pain or discomfort it caused me. But then, it was better than before– Bellatrix had inflicted her own idea of fun onto my body before we made back for the castle. My own screams had rattled my head, my jaw wired shut by the same curse that held my body in the palm of its hand.

I'd only been under the imperius once in my life, and that had been for a classroom lesson. This was... different. Darker. Stronger. Mentally, I could push though, but physically... I had a better chance of bending cement with my teeth than breaking out of it. Even when the Dark Lord cast other spells, his attention directed elsewhere, the curse held. Tightly wound around me so as to prevent any escape. He wasn't taking chances, and it was infuriatingly smart of him.

I took the opportunity of not having control over myself to focus on my thoughts, on planning. If Harry was alive, somehow... that changed everything.

If I was alive, that changed everything.

Everything.

We just had to get away from the Death Eaters and back onto our feet. Our own, controllable feet. Hagrid walked a few steps behind me, his muffled sobs tearing at what was left of my heart. We made our way to the castle, one long procession of death and darkness.

And I had been put in the lead. Fitting, I supposed.

But I hadn't expected the cries from the castle to be quite so horrible.

McGonagall's was by far the worst, and if I my body hadn't been held so rigidly by Voldemort's curse, I would've flinched, bowed in under the weight of it. Instead I willed my focus to the center of my brain, trying to figure out if I had any inch of control inside my own body. Everything felt slow and tired, the outside world hard to understand as I combatted what twined underneath my skin. If I focused it, I could feel the spell like wires, running alongside my veins. 

Briefly, my lungs tightened, an uncomfortable twang– Voldemort, I guessed. Exercising his power over me. I could feel my limbs moving, legs aching but fluid as I spun– and curtseyed. As if from a distance, I could hear the crowd roar in outrage. My body straightened, small but lithe, and the unwilling smile that spread over my lips felt more like a snarl.

"Siri!" A voice called from the crowd, haggard and pained. George.

"She is not yours!" Voldemort's cry was hoarse, loud, and reverberated through my bones. "She is not Siri Black, not your savior, not the lover of your precious Chosen One. She is my weapon. She is mine. And those of you who do not stand down will be the first to understand how I intend to use her. But accept your defeat, eviscerate your allegiance to your fallen heroes, and stand down."

There was a cry from a crowd, and something in my ears went foggy, muffled and hard-to-hear. I wanted to shake against it, whip my head around until it went away. The imperius held me like a specially-made cage, and I get only grit my teeth as I remembered the role I was supposed to play.

Soulless weapon. The Dark Lord's doll.

I stopped fighting, glad the Dark Lord was too distracted to notice the protest inside me. I wondered why he'd chosen to block my ears from outside noises– perhaps even now he still feared I would rebel, would somehow remember who I was and re-join the fight on the right side.

Of course, he was correct, but it was nonetheless entertaining to understand the so very human insecurity.

I tried to see what I could– the Dark Lord had allowed my chin drop, and my eyes could only peer upwards so far as to see just the beginning of someone's feet as they stumbled to the open center of the courtyard. More muffled speaking– from who's side, I didn't know.