When the Night Broke
By Hannah Davenport (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Summary: Sequel to "Bent" and "Twisted." Five years later, Ginny is a bored and very depressed employee at Flourish and Blotts. Outside her drawn-in, little world lies an evil overlord of doom by the name of Radoc Lafoym, who is threatening society. How do they relate?
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. It's just fan fiction!
Author's Note: Muahahahahahahahahahahahaha! (::twists hands together in a rather freaky way::) Now, so you all know, I have been (ahem) skiving off some bits of school (like math...) to write this. Not because I have been pestered, but because this story is rather haunting my dreams, and I want to get over with it so that I can write a story about Harry thanking Snape for the fantabulistic webmistress . . . Peace, all.
< >It was dark. That was all Ginny could tell. It was rather obvious her glasses had been removed, and she rubbed her eyes sleepily. Her first thought was that she was at home in her bed, and it was the middle of the night, and that whole thing with Harry's house had been a horrible, horrible nightmare. But, her bed wasn't nearly as big as the one she was in now. And she was dressed in her normal clothes.
< >You didn't have to be a rocket-scientist to figure out what had happened.
< >She screamed, and the room lit up. She saw someone (or rather, a blurred outline of someone) slowly approach her, and hand her the familiar rectangular wire-frames. She put them on, and saw a very creepy looking man standing above her.
< >"He - hello," she stammered, looking around the room. It was made of stone, oddly enough, and curious metal torch brackets lined the walls. There were no windows, only a single chair added to the decor.
< >"My Lord wishes to know if you are hungry," the creepy man said, in a deep and intimidating voice.
< >"No," she replied nervously, pulling her knees up to her chin. "But, could I please speak with him, maybe?"
< >He gave her a perplexed look. "I'm sorry," he said darkly. "But Lord Radoc said that if you asked, I was supposed to tell you he's much to busy, but maybe tomorrow."
< >"Tomorrow?" Ginny asked, shocked. "I'm not going to be here that long, am I?"
< >He looked completely stunned. "Madam," he said. "I thought most people would have guessed . . . Once you enter Deathtrap Tower as a prisoner, you never leave."
< >Ginny began to feel slightly irritated now. "Oh, that's nice," she replied. "Well, would you please tell his unorthodoxness that however ominous and foul he may be, I would like to have a word or twenty with him."
< >He furrowed his eyebrows, and stalked off, and it was all Ginny could do not to curse in depression at her prisoner-like state. But after he shut the door, she had something else to think about. Because the moment the door creaked shut, the lights went out, and she was plunged into complete and total darkness once more.
< >"I can't believe it! I can't believe you did that!" Narcissa shrieked as Radoc calmly sipped a glass of wine.
< >"Oh, come now," Radoc sighed, leaning back in a very cushy armchair that resided by an empty fireplace. "I had to do it sooner or later, you know. And you remember what my childhood was like, don't you? And almost all of your married life?" She merely glared at him with cold eyes as a reply. He sighed, deeply, shut his eyes out of immense frustration, and threw his now empty wineglass at the wall. It shattered, and he opened his eyes.
< >"Just because he was horrible," Narcissa said bitterly. "Doesn't mean I didn't love him."
< >"Love?" he chuckled mirthlessly. "Honestly, mother, I thought you knew there wasn't such a thing. Love is for small children and thick-headed idiots who have absolutely nothing to believe in. Love is only one more word for blindness and confusion. Love is an ailment, mother, and the best thing anyone could ever do is to dispose of it."
< >"You are an impossible dolt," Narcissa spat, and she turned quickly and left the room.
< >Radoc slid down in his chair, closing his eyes once more. "Thank you," he said to himself. "Thank you, I'll be sure to remember that when your day comes. Which will be very soon if you don't keep your impertinent and immature thoughts to yourself."
< >All Ginny could tell, was that it was very, very cold in this room that was her prison cell. Even though her bed had thick comforters and sheets, she couldn't help but feeling the cold was more than the room temperature. To her, it felt as though the dementors had made a return. A violent and bloodthirsty return, like that of the new Dark Lord.
< >She writhed about in the bed, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing whether or not she was going to die quickly or if this man was going to torture her in a long and painful way. Have her die over the space of a week, or something like that. The thought terrified poor Ginny as she sat alone in that dark, cold room; but what was the alternative? Her wand had obviously been confiscated while she had been unconscious, and there wasn't much you could do without a wand these days.
< >"Oh, it's no use behaving in such a negative way," she told herself sharply. "Before now you've always looked on the bright side - even before you met Draco, so don't try that one on us again.
< >"But I'm going to die," she began tearfully. "Oh, shut up," she told herself angrily. And then she came to the realization that she had been talking to herself, in which case she began sobbing worse than ever. "I'm going mental!" she cried hopelessly. "I'm going to be a nutty old fool until I die!"
< >And then a noise made her shut up, and listen carefully. It was a creaking noise. Thin and slightly hollow with a hint of metal scraping against wood. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. The door was opening. And this was not the way Charles usually opened the door. He usually just flung it open. But this . . . this was prolonged and dusty and frightening. And Ginny, watching the sliver of light that was coming into the room get wider, silently crawled into a corner behind the bed. If this was her moment, then she wasn't going to give in that easily.
< >The steady clop of shoes on the floor soon followed the noise of the creaky old door, and Ginny found that the palms of her hands had a thin coat of perspiration. The clop got closer, and Ginny, shut her eyes tightly.
< >Breathe, she told herself nervously. Just sit here, and hope he doesn't find you... The noise stopped. And Ginny got the feeling that she was being watched. So much for hoping, she thought sadly.
< >"Hello, Miss Weasley," said a voice. A voice that sounded to Ginny as though it were half steel. Steel that had been embedded in ice.
< >"Hullo," she replied quietly, very surprised at her courage.
< >He chuckled softly - a sound that was what Ginny would later compare to murder. "Do get up from there," he ordered. His tone wasn't sharp, but it wasn't gentle, either.
< >Ginny slowly straightened up, and sat staring up at him from the floor. The room was now lighter than it had been, but some shadows still lingered on, waiting to grab a hold of and disrupt. And this man, the Dark Lord, was more shadowed that Ginny would ever be able to comprehend. His short hair was silver-blonde, and his eyes a cold, hard gray. His expression was not murderous, but it wasn't kind. From her estimation, Ginny guessed that he was about six foot four. And despite all the lines of intensity and anger in his face, she could tell that he wasn't much older than herself.
< >He smiled a rather twisted smile, and said, "Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. How long it's been."
He couldn't look right into her eyes, even though she was doing just that to him. She had done it before, only once. She was trying to read him. Trying to see whether his intentions were good or bad. She was wondering where on earth she had seen him before, if she had at all. But she had. And he was somewhat pleased that she didn't know that. It kept him in power. One step ahead. Or possibly three.
< >"What?" she asked, shocked.
< >A malicious smirk played his lips, and he folded his arms across his chest. "What - you don't remember?" he asked in a tone of hurt dignity and sorrow. "Well, soon enough I'll be jogging your memory."
< >"What do you want with me?" she asked abruptly, looking like she was acting braver than she felt.
< >"What do I want with you..." he repeated, still smirking in a dangerous sort of way. "Well, not much. I want you to sit in this room, and, well, sit."
< >"Sit?" she asked incredulously.
< >"What?" he asked ominously. "Did you think I was fixing to have you murdered in a highly long and painful fashion? I think not. If I were going to kill you any time soon, I would perform a simple, old-fashioned cranioectomy with a long and rusty strip of metal and no anesthetics. So I would behave myself, if I were you."
< >She swallowed in fear. "I don't doubt it," she muttered to herself. But he chose to ignore this remark.
< >"So," he began again. "Let's get your record straight, shall we? Your name is Virginia Weasley, your age is twenty two, your birthday is November thirteenth, you are the youngest of seven children and the only girl, and you work - (well, worked) - at Flourish and Blotts bookstore. Correct?"
< >She nodded. "But how...?" she asked quietly.
< >"Oh, come on." he laughed. "I keep very neat records of all my victims. Heavens, you were such a brilliant little girl, and now you've become such a thick young lady."
< >"I'm not thick!" she cried in indignation, quite forgetting who she was talking to. "I know a lot of things you don't. That it's very wrong to go about killing people because you've had too much to drink, for example!" She was about to continue, but she checked herself, and stared determinedly at the floor.
< >"Ah, what a nice little attribute that must be," he said softly, leaning over slightly and lifting her chin up to finally look her in the eye. "To be able to stare at the ground and have the world around you dissolve into tiny pieces." he added in a whisper.
< >Her eyes widened behind her glasses, which were now sliding slowly down her nose. He could see himself reflected twice in her light brown eyes. "I - I -," she stammered back, and he took some delight in noticing how badly her hands were shaking.
< >Their noses were about half an inch away, and he closely inspected every aspect of her face. Every expression. Every freckle... "It must come in useful quite often," he replied. "When Draco Malfoy died, for instance."
< >Her eyes widened even more. "Don't hurt me," she whispered. "Please, don't hurt me... Please, I'll do anything... I'll - I'll change my appearance and move to Nova Scotia - I'll do anything, but please don't hurt me . . .. I'll never tell anyone who I really am - I'll . . ."
< >"Shut up," he said sharply, and she did. His throat tightened until he felt he couldn't breathe. One single memory replayed in the only fragment of his mind that hadn't been disrupted. He straightened up, letting go of her face, which was now shiny from tears. And for a fraction of a minute, remorse overpowered him, and he found himself saying something he couldn't ever remember saying. "Don't cry..."
< >She looked up at him, tears welling up with every passing second. After about quarter of an hour, she said something. "I bet if you tried, you could be a very decent human being."
< >He chewed his tongue, and headed for the door, turning back to add a last remark. "You'll be allowed out every morning to take a bath, and twice a day for the W.C. - Avery and Macnair will be guarding your room, so don't even think of escape. Charles will bring you your meals, and occasionally I might see - how things are going. And by the way," he paused, sneering at the girl who was crying on the floor. "Lack of trying had nothing to do with it."
< >He exited, and slammed the door behind him. Then he leaned back against it, the slightly damp and rotten wood cool against his back. "I made her cry," he muttered, putting his face in his hands. "I actually made her cry...."
< >And that was when he remembered he was supposed to be a man of stubborn and intense dignity, which included the fact that he was NOT susceptible to feelings of guilt and sympathy. "Oh... blast it!" he snapped angrily. "I need a drink..." and with that, he set off to the wine-cellar.
< >Ginny dried her eyes on the bedcovers. He was quite possibly the most terrifying human being she had ever met. Shaking, she climbed silently back onto the bed, curling up into feeble position. She took her glasses off, and set them on the floor.
< >She mentally withdrew into her own thoughts - ignoring the dark - ignoring the cold that gnawed ruthlessly at her skin... She closed her eyes, and remembered her summer after her sixth year.
< >"Now Ginny," Dr. Lucafont said calmly. "I understand you've recently suffered the loss of a dear friend..."
< >Ginny didn't answer. She merely stared around at the walls of the psychiatrist's office. Everything in St. Mungo's was white, beige, or cream, and the same was true for the walls in the large room she was in. There was a very pregnant pause, during which Dr. Lucafont drummed his fingers against the white metal desk, and tapped his pencil against a white metal lamp that sat atop it.
< >"Ginny," Dr. Lucafont repeated.
< >"Yes," she replied quietly.
< >"Yes what, Ginny?"
< >"Yes, dash it all!" she screamed, standing from the white chair she had been sitting in. "Yes! I admit it, alright! He's gone! And I'm not going to do bloody anything to try and get better, you psychoneurotic moron! You can't help me! NO ONE CAN HELP ME!"
< >At that point, security had been called to take Ginny back to her room. And as they dragged her along the white hallway that was decorated with paintings of white daisies, she heard her next-door-neighbor exclaim proudly, "Well, I may not know who I am yet, but my smile is GORGEOUS!"
< >Tears soaked Ginny's pillow, and after what seemed like hours, she slipped into a state of twisted nightmares and horrible memories of the same nature. It was times like these that she wished she wasn't so connected with the Dark. And it was times like these, that she hated Tom Riddle.
< >Radoc stared emptily into the fireplace, which still had no fire. He took a long drink of the bottle of champagne he had found, and sighed deeply and warily. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, kicking his shoes off. He leaned back into his chair, sighed again, and brushed a stray piece of hair from his face. It was times like these when he just sat, thinking.
He had to admit, she was still beautiful. But, beauty didn't count for anything, really. He smiled to himself, thinking of something that required less remembering: The Curses. He had invented six new curses to use on his next victims.
< >The Repe curse, which tracks things/people. Incantation: Reperire
< >The Containment curse, which imprisons people in a large bubble of electricity. Incantation: Phylaca
< >The Secare curse, which killed someone by slicing 10,000 deep cuts. Incantation: Mortificare
< >The Tie curse, which tied someone in ropes five inches thick. Incantation: Ligare
< >The Screaming curse, which was even more painful that the Cruciatus and Painudum curse put together. Incantation: Carnificina
< >And finally, the Complete curse, which puts you under complete and unbreakable mind control. Incantation: Mens Gubernare Plenus
< >He smiled again at the thought of torture, murder, and imprisonment. He was evil to the core. Or so he thought. But, he finished off the bottle of champagne, folded his arms across his chest, and fell into a deep and uneasy sleep, during which he dreamed of a life before this one - one he had always wondered about . . .
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