Consciousness returned to me as a slow, viscous stream. The first thing to arrive after awareness was PAIN. It was everywhere. Literally in every part of my body. A deep, aching pain, spreading in waves from every muscle, every joint. My body was one giant bruise. And with every passing moment, the pain only intensified. My mind began to thrash in panic, flinching in fear of the approaching wave of agony.
I tried to open my eyes, and that in itself was torture. My eyelashes were stuck together... my eyelids felt like lead. With an effort that sent new cracks through the dried, crusted blood on my face, I forced them apart. Slowly, but I managed. The world swam into view as a blurred, indistinct blotch. It smelled of dust, mold, and... something else. Ah, yes... blood... like a metallic taste in my mouth.
The distinct, nauseating metallic taste of blood anchored the scene. I tried to swallow, but my throat was scorched and empty. My mouth was a veritable desert...
I was lying down. Actually, no, I'd been propped up. My back was against something hard and uneven. A damp wooden wall, I thought. An attempt to move resulted in another flare of sharp pain, forcing me to stop involuntarily. My right arm hung pulled to the side, tied with some thick, chafing rope. It had swollen from the awkward position and the tight, coarse cord. My legs were simply bound together.
But the worst was my left arm. My newly awakened mind didn't understand why all my limbs were tied except for the left one. From elbow to wrist, my left arm was immobilized in a makeshift splint. Two crude wooden planks, bound with dirty bandages. A deep, throbbing pain pulsed in time with my heartbeat and grew so rapidly that with each new wave, I wanted to burst into tears. Why was this happening to me!?
My eyes, crusted with dried blood, didn't even have the moisture to produce tears. "Calm down... calm down, you have to hold on. The main thing is to get out, all this will heal... it will pass... Arcturus... it will pass," I tried to encourage myself, but the pain was too intense.
I tried to wiggle the fingers of my left hand, but from wrist to shoulder, I felt a reaction that made me squeeze my eyes shut in pain. Definitely broken. Someone had apparently set the broken bone. Well, at least they didn't leave it as is, since they applied a splint; that would have been worse. At least they didn't kill me. That's good, right?
Every thought loop was just an attempt to forget the pain for a second, but my body ached... too much.
I just wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and open them at home... every shallow, cautious breath brought a stabbing pain to my chest. I was afraid to breathe too deeply. Maybe a rib was broken? Possibly more than one. My body screamed at me about every injury: the dislocated shoulder, the strained ligaments in my leg, the countless bruises and abrasions covering my skin in purplish-blue blotches. And some wounds, already sealed with thin scabs, oozed fluid again from my attempts to move.
The pain was so overwhelming I couldn't concentrate on anything. It was too all-consuming for me to attempt anything.
With difficulty, I slowly began to turn my head, my vertebrae creaking. The room was small and long abandoned. Dim light from the fading day filtered through a window boarded up with nails. I was alone here, with nothing that could help me escape. One tied-up, beaten, and broken boy. Would the pain ever stop!? How long, how long must I suffer!?
All my pride crumbled to dust before simple, animal fear and all-consuming pain. I was just a kid, ground into meat. Magic wouldn't obey, because I couldn't concentrate enough to control its flow. And what could I do... my body had long gone numb, and from the pain I couldn't even breathe properly.
Dark spots still swam before my eyes.
The strength I had gathered just to open my eyes and look around was spent. My body demanded to shut down, to hide from the torment. And the pain only intensified with each second, becoming unbearable. Only the realization that no one was here and I could try to escape kept me conscious.
I resisted, trying to cling to clarity, but the darkness at the edge of my vision closed in. With every second, my tormented body broke my will to be free.
What can I do if I can't even move!? Finally, my body, pushed to its limit, forced my consciousness to surrender.
The next time I came to, it was because of sounds. Just a murmur, penetrating the depths of oblivion, slowly began to register as human voices. They broke through the fog in my head, sharp and arguing. I didn't have the strength to open my eyes.
"...told you three times already why we're not killing him! Ransom, you understand? Ransom, and that's it!"
"I understand, Oliver! I understand — I won't kill him! But let me erase his memory! I do it cleaner than anyone. Have you ever used Obliviate on a person!?"
The voice was familiar. The same one that had screamed "Brother!" in the cave. A rage began to build in my chest.
Oliver. So that was one of their names. And the second one... the second one wanted to get inside my head. Through the pain and weakness, I felt a surge of strength and fury. Erase my memory! MY MEMORY! Strip me of my memories! My knowledge, my experiences, my will. No. NO. NO! I'll kill them, I'll kill them all! No one touches my memory!
"No!" came Oliver's indignant voice. "You just want revenge! You'll probably erase everything back to infancy, turn him into a vegetable! We need to exchange him at least conscious, otherwise his body's in a terrible state."
The second voice screeched in response:
"That bastard killed my brother! He must pay, if not with his life, then with his mind!"
This dialogue... this cynical bargaining over my consciousness, my identity, affected me more powerfully than any spell. My tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth, darkness clouded my vision, but I forced my eyes open. Through a narrow slit between my heavy eyelids, I saw the two of them — the one who had smoked by the window, and the other, with tanned skin, half-bald and stouter. He... he wants to erase my identity! I was ready to do anything. Break my other arm, tear the ropes with my teeth, just to stop them. Anger gave me strength I didn't have.
But... it still wasn't enough. I needed more strength and more rage!
What can I do without a wand... think! Think! Push, create a shield, throw something, but that won't free me. What can I do? Come up with a plan, Arctur... you know how!
At some point, the smoking man glanced at me. He quickly approached, pulled a potion from inside his robes.
No, I tried to say, but only a hoarse, silent groan escaped my throat. Fingers like iron vises clamped my jaw, forcing it open. I felt the bones of my jaw creak under the pressure. He poured the potion down my throat. The liquid was thick, with a bitter, fatty aftertaste, but I recognized another familiar, herbal note. Probably a strengthening potion. It slowly spread down my esophagus, and I felt weak, warm waves spreading through my body, as if nourishing it. Finally, the taste of blood and the desert dryness in my mouth disappeared.
Immediately after, he took out another potion, and I thought he'd force it into me the same way, but no. Just a few drops fell onto my tongue. The vile taste of the purple potion briefly agitated my exhausted mind.
I was slipping back into the abyss of darkness. This time, because of the potion. The next awakening was the most abrupt.
I was woken by something sharp, acrid, burning my nose and throat. Like having smelling salts shoved down my gullet. My brain exploded with alarm, and I instinctively jerked, trying to break free, but consciousness was struck again by the terrible pain from my wounds.
Before me, filling my entire field of vision, loomed a strange face. The face of the larger one who wanted to kill me... no, worse! Erase my memory... his face was now etched into my memory with hatred. Even if they erase my memory, I won't forget, I'll kill him. KILL them all!
He smelled of sweat. His small, deep-set eyes, like two black beads, bored into me with cold, indifferent cruelty. He didn't even make a sound. Just watched as I tried to struggle, like a fish caught on the shore.
My body, drained, weakened, with a broken arm and ribs, was helpless. With the last of my strength, I tried to twist away when his rough, calloused palm grabbed my throat and squeezed. It hurt. I wheezed. With his other hand, he brought a small vial to my lips — another strengthening potion.
Apparently, they were still sticking to the ransom plan, so they were keeping the body alive. After he poured the potion into me, he tossed the empty vial aside, and his face finally contorted. A grimace of cold rage — that's what scared me about him.
"If I can't kill him, and can't erase all his memory..." his voice was a quiet, hoarse whisper that froze the blood in my veins, "...then I'll at least have my revenge with pain."
He raised his wand. I understood he hadn't been healing me for nothing. He was preparing me.
"Petrificus Totalus."
An icy wave of paralysis swept through my body, locking every limb. I froze in an unnatural, half-sitting position, unable to move. The only thing left was my mind. My consciousness, trapped in an immobile body, and magic. I immediately began gathering magic for a pinpoint burst, to quickly dispel the curse. But I didn't have even those pitiful scraps of time.
Just one word, but it turned my world upside down. After this, I would know what to call PAIN.
"Crucio!"
This was not simple pain. This was the absolute of pain. A universe woven solely from suffering. It started somewhere deep inside and exploded, filling every cell of my body. It wasn't like fire, cold, a cut, or a blow. It was all of that at once, multiplied by a thousand. Every nerve in my body was ripped out, exposed, connected to a source of pure, unfiltered torment. My consciousness, locked in the paralyzed body, screamed and shrieked. It tore itself apart, trying to escape, but couldn't.
I felt my bones trying to bend and break from internal tension, my muscles trying to contract to the limit, ready to tear, my skin burning and cracking. I would have thrashed, convulsed, howled, scratched the floor to the bone, bashed my head against the wall, just to make it stop. But I couldn't. I could only lie there and suffer. My mind raced in hell, beating against the walls of my skull like a bird in a cage. It was madness. Hell. Absolute darkness, where there was nothing but one thing — all-consuming, endless, meaningless suffering.
Not even a wheeze could escape my throat. My larynx was paralyzed. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I couldn't even close my eyelids to avoid seeing the face of the man who watched with a cold, almost bored expression as I slowly went mad from pain. He just watched, but in his gaze was a terrible, inhuman thirst: he reveled in my torment and his own power. The power to inflict pain... pain that an ordinary person couldn't even conceive of. And he inflicted all this pain on me, a thirteen-year-old boy.
The torture seemed to last an eternity. For an entire eternity, my being was reduced to one unfiltered signal of pain, the insane shriek of every nerve. Consciousness, trapped in the body, became one continuous, silent scream. And then, as suddenly as it began, it all stopped.
The crimson cloud of magic enveloping my body vanished.
Silence. The absence of pain was so deafening that for a split second I simply existed in a vacuum, unable to comprehend that it was over. Then my body began to ache from the wounds, which had only worsened from the tension. I couldn't take it anymore; all my fuses had blown. All that remained in me was primal, animal terror and the rage accumulated during these endless torments.
These surges of anger were something very unfamiliar to me, as if alien and yet deeply familiar.
And it broke free. Not as a spell or a thought, but as a pure, uncontrolled wave of magic. Like a shockwave from an explosion, it shattered the curse. The paralysis binding me burst like a soap bubble under the onslaught of this raw, uncontrollable force.
The rotten wooden walls held, but my tormentor was thrown back a couple of meters. My victory, however, was short-lived. A moment later, my suffering began again.
"Crucio!" his hoarse voice rang out again, full of rage and astonishment.
But this time I wasn't paralyzed. The pain returned, the same soul-scorching, hellish wave. But now it had an outlet.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
A scream tore from my throat. Not a human one, no. It was the roar of a cornered, mutilated beast. A hoarse, ragged scream. It seemed it could tear space itself apart. I screamed the pain itself, I spat it out, trying to somehow reduce the unbearable pressure inside. Neither my broken ribs nor my arm — nothing could compare to the pain from one of the three Unforgivable Curses. The Curse of PAIN.
And at that very moment, through the veil of unbearable pain and my own roaring, at the edge of my clouded consciousness, I caught movement at the door. Someone else had entered the room. That's what I had been hoping for. Only then did my torment cease again. But for how long?
The last drops of strength, spent on breaking the paralysis and that inhuman scream, were exhausted. My consciousness, unable to bear the double burden — monstrous pain and the brief but draining outburst of magic — plunged back into darkness and surrendered.
The darkness was so cozy... completely without pain. With each blackout, I sank deeper and deeper. I wondered, could I just let go and dissolve into it completely? I wouldn't feel pain anymore... no one would torture me... I wouldn't have to do anything...
Perhaps... yes...
And it was all the more amusing that, having let go of everything, I didn't dissolve... but sank into myself?
I don't know. But in this darkness, I could think. Had I died? If so, then what was all this for? Why had I suffered, why had I trained day in and day out? What was the point of it all if in the end I died? Or maybe this... wasn't death? Then what? The depths of my consciousness, perhaps? I wish someone would appear here to help me... oh, right... I live in the real world...
I only failed to understand two things. How had my body endured so much, and second — why had all my actions led to this? Who had I gotten in the way of so badly!? Or was it all about simple money? Could they really erase my memory for that... How much...? A day, two, a week, a month, a year... How much!? I'd pay them everything I had just so they wouldn't touch my memory. Not a single second of my memory, even the worst seconds... even the pain from the Cruciatus. I don't want that! I want to remember everything, otherwise I won't even be myself anymore.
Determination... that's what awoke in me. But along with it, something else broke through, something I only noticed at the edge of my awareness. Something extremely ancient, terrible, that filled this entire place with darkness. But soon I forgot about it, giving myself entirely to a new goal, a drive... fueled by anger.
They say what doesn't kill us makes us stronger... if I'm not dead yet, then... I'll show them! Who cares if I don't have a wand, I didn't train wandless magic for nothing. Who cares about my arm, who cares about my body. Would I, Arcturus Malfoy-Black, accept having my memory erased!? Oh no, I won't allow it!
I don't know how long I was in this darkness, but I felt good. No pain, just my own thoughts, spinning and changing, but at some point I decided to make sure I wasn't really dead and tried to delve into my consciousness — and I succeeded. And from there, I managed to return to awareness.
It was terrifying to go back to the pain and suffering, but I must not break, I must become stronger! For everything I've endured, I will pay them back in full, no matter how many times my consciousness fades. Because it will only burn brighter!
***
Morning found Oliver Unsworth in the same spot by the open window, a Muggle cigarette trembling in his fingers. He hadn't closed his eyes after the night's incident. Experience had shown that Edmund, consumed by grief and fury, was capable of anything. Before handing over the hostage... hah. Just a thirteen-year-old boy... he needed to quell his vengeful fervor. Across from him sat a subdued Edmund.
The Renfro brothers were skilled wizards: the late Edgar was strong in potions and artifacts, and Edmund had always been a fighter, quite powerful and decisive. Oliver soberly assessed his own strength and understood: if Edmund completely lost control, he wouldn't hesitate to finish off the boy. And Oliver wouldn't be able to do anything about it.
"We need to wait for Godfrey," Oliver said wearily, exhaling a stream of smoke. "He'll erase the memory himself. Remove the memories of the last three days, and that's it. You understand, you're not yourself right now."
"I'll do it," Edmund growled, his eyes red from sleeplessness and unshed tears. "I won't mess up. Said three days, I'll erase three days."
"Edmund, wait..." Oliver began, but it was too late.
Edmund turned sharply and headed for the corner where, on the dirty floor, the exhausted boy still lay unconscious. He was under the influence of a powerful sleeping draught brewed by Edmund's late brother. His haggard face was deathly pale, starkly contrasting with the dried blood. The boy's breathing was shallow. Edmund hadn't even considered that the kid would cling to life so desperately, still not dead from such injuries.
Renfro drew his wand, his hand trembling with restrained emotion. He aimed the tip directly at the boy's head, his lips already beginning to form the incantation. Behind him, Oliver was shouting something, but he didn't care. Renfro couldn't resist the temptation to avenge his brother. Avenge the fact that a thirteen-year-old boy had defended himself and, out of fear of death, killed his attacker. Sure, but emotions had clouded his judgment. And he never cared about others anyway.
"Obli..."
The spell was never cast. Everything happened in an instant. A seemingly helpless, powerless body. But in one moment, the boy's head jerked sharply to the side, moving out of the line of attack. His right arm, tied up for over a day and should have been numb, jerked with inhuman strength, and the ropes snapped. Fingers, too strong and tenacious for a boy with such injuries, dug into Edmund's face. They squeezed with such force that the nails broke the skin, drawing blood and blocking his vision.
A decent fighter, Edmund could do nothing; he hadn't expected a half-dead kid to pull such a stunt. Especially not what happened next. There was an explosion. Edmund's body, with half its head blown apart, was hurled into the air, caught by the force of the blast. A monstrous roar accompanied the corpse's flight, which spun through the air and crashed into the unsuspecting Oliver, knocking him off his feet and throwing him aside.
Oliver hit his head against the wall, and for a second, his consciousness blurred. When he could focus his gaze again, he saw something that froze the blood in his veins.
In the center of the room, swaying, stood the boy who had been half-dead from his wounds just moments before. He was almost entirely covered in dried blood, except for his right hand, from whose fingers fresh blood still dripped. His left arm, still in the makeshift splint, hung limp. From his eyes seeped a bottomless, inhuman hatred — a rage not inherent to man. And he yearned to unleash it all. And only one victim remained alive.