I couldn't forget and I couldn't let go. The idea that they could erase my memories... that was worse than any torture. It was the destruction of my very self.
I had to return. No matter how terrifying it was to once again feel the full pain of my mutilated body, I couldn't let them do it. The thought of surrendering, of dissolving into nothingness, now felt like a betrayal of myself. For everything I'd endured, I would make them pay in full.
Within my consciousness, I thought long and hard about what I could do, and it all came down to the state of my body. What could a person do with broken ribs, a broken arm, sprained ligaments and muscles, injuries all over his body, with hands and knees torn down to the raw flesh... What could I do!? What could a thirteen-year-old boy in such a condition do, even a wizard? Usually, nothing. Because without a wand, in such a state, what could you do? Right, nothing. But does the absence of a wand make me a Muggle, a weakling? Oh no... I spent so much time and effort precisely so I wouldn't be limited by a wand!
The return was like surfacing from the bottom of an icy lake. The dull ache everywhere soon began to recede, giving way to sharp waves of pain from the fracture throbbing in time with my heartbeat, and of course, the familiar stabs in my ribs with every inhale and exhale.
I didn't even open my eyes; there was no need. Instead, I focused on what I could feel. I was lying on something hard and cold. My right hand was crudely tied. The rope had long since dug into my wrist, impeding blood flow. The hand was so numb I couldn't even feel the pain from the flesh torn raw on my palm. But the hand... I could wiggle my fingers. The numbness from the long captivity was slowly beginning to fade, replaced by pins and needles. And this was my only chance. I worked the hand for a long time, simultaneously trying to free myself, but without magic, there was no way.
I tried with magic, using telekinesis to break the fibers. But it was too difficult and too dangerous. Dangerous in the sense that if it made noise, or even if it didn't, they would easily notice upon entering the room. It was a dead end of waiting. Despair began to rise in my throat as a bitter lump. I forced it back. I had to think. Even if I freed myself, what could I do against two adult wizards armed with wands.
Meanwhile, the pain only grew, as always before, but my thoughts raced quickly, not even considering surrendering to the waves of terrible pain. The kind I had never experienced in my life... or lives.
It was then that I heard footsteps. And voices. They entered the room. I gave no sign of regaining consciousness, continuing to breathe evenly and shallowly. I was trying to mimic the rhythm of unconsciousness. Inside, however, everything was boiling. An unnatural anger began to rise from within. Soon, the smell of tobacco filled the room. For a while, these bastards were silent, but no more than fifteen minutes passed before they started arguing again.
"We need to wait for Godfrey," Oliver? — that seemed to be his voice — said wearily. "He'll erase the memory himself. Remove only the memories of the last three days, and that's it. You understand, you're not yourself right now and might erase more."
They'll erase my memory! Three days, no... the last three days... so much happened. I can't lose all that... the conversation with Selene and old Alain, my plans with Louis. The farewell with Selene. Most importantly, the WCMG! I can't lose my memory! So many reflections, so many decisions and thoughts… I won't allow it! I'LL KILL. I'LL DESTROY!
The anger inside me continued to grow. With every second, it became harder to hold on and not give myself away. Something dark, destructive was accumulating inside...
"I'll do it," growled the voice of that creature who had tortured me with the Cruciatus. "I won't mess up. Said three days, I'll erase three days."
He... no, not him! He'll erase everything! He'll definitely erase everything, or kill me! NO, I have to act... although, no, I can't do anything. CALM DOWN! Just wait a little. I won't allow it. He's already dead… he's already dead, just wait.
"Edmund, wait..."
I listened to their argument. Oliver and the other one... Edmund, apparently. They were so casually discussing who would erase my memory and how. Each of their words was a drop of molten metal falling onto my soul. 'Three days, meaning three days.' 'He'll remove the memories.' 'I'll do it.' Anger, black and all-consuming, rose within me like a tidal wave. It eclipsed the pain and eclipsed the fear. These creatures... these worthless scum... they wanted to take me away from myself! My hand, still numb, trembled with rage and tension... but I waited. I felt magic raging within me, ready to burst out, to shatter this rotten hovel into splinters, to turn these two into bloody pulp. I was ready for anything. Burn them alive, tear them apart, just to protect every second, every memory — even the most terrible ones, even the pain from the Cruciatus. This was mine. And they dared not touch it. I WILL KILL THEM. I KNOW HOW TO KILL THEM!
Edmund's heavy footsteps, approaching me with every second, fueled that fire... no, the inferno raging inside me. I felt a slight movement of air before my face. It smelled of sweat, the vile stench of that parasite. I heard his heavy breathing. An icy premonition scratched my back. A premonition of danger. And I waited, like a compressed spring... and then I heard a whisper. The beginning of an incantation.
"Obli..."
That sound became the trigger. Everything inside me exploded. That very black anger that had been building up during all these torturous hours broke free. My mind blurred, choking on fury. I didn't hesitate. Because I acted. Retribution had begun, and may I smite my enemies. Let them know the wrath of a true Black!
I'LL KILL THEM ALL!
My eyes snapped open and I jerked my head to the side, moving out of the wand's line of fire. My bound hand, in which I had been concentrating magic all this time, lunged forward with a force borrowed from desperation. The ropes tore from the telekinetic force applied inward. First, I compressed the weave inward, then with immense force pulled outward — they snapped with a dry crack.
My right hand, covered in dried blood and abrasions, clawed into the creature's face. My fingers, with a sweet sensation, sank into his skin. Nails dug into his vile flesh until they drew blood. I blocked his view, too bad I didn't gouge out the eyes of this VERMIN! And I felt his shock, his surprise. Yes, exactly! DIE!
And now, all that remained was to KILL. Without a hint of an incantation, pure, unbridled will to destruction burst from my palm. A clump of magical energy, usually meant to repel... my air ram, so concentrated and furious it could have thrown back an entire wardrobe. And all that energy, inside my tormentor's skull...
There was a loud, wet smack. The thug's head exploded in my hand, splattering my arm with fresh blood. Edmund's body, twisting from the blast in its skull, was hurled away like a ragdoll at tremendous speed. The now-dead body slammed into his smoking accomplice. The next CORPSE!
Directing my hand at the rope binding my legs together, I tore it apart with telekinesis. At that moment, my consciousness forgot the pain, RAGE eclipsed everything. And I had only one desire: to stand up and flay the last one alive. I WILL KILL him too, but not as quickly and without torment.
I stood up. My body was so weak… I hated even myself, but I also thirsted for blood, which meant I had strength! Blood dripped from my fingers onto the dirty floor. My left arm dangled uselessly. But I was standing. Standing and looking at Oliver, who, leaning against the wall, finally raised his gaze, and his face contorted with horror. Hahahahaha. The horror is just beginning!
He jerked sharply for his wand, reaching for his shoulder, but a wandless analogue of Flipendo from Flitwick's notes, overflowing with anger and magic, slammed the fool into the wall with a wet crunch, breaking something.
"Argh!" screamed the half-dead man in pain. The wand flew from his hand, clattering across the uneven floor. Oh, how sweet that crunch of bones sounded.
"Hurts, doesn't it!? I know, that's how bones break! How many bones do you think I can break before you pass out from the pain!?"
I was literally growling, like an animal. Now there were only two in the room. One victim, and one executioner. And in that moment, we both understood perfectly well who was which. I WILL DESTROY!
***
In the stuffy, dusty air of the room, which now resembled a slaughterhouse more than anything, hung the sweet-coppery smell of fresh blood, mixed with the stench of damp wood and tobacco smoke. In the center of this chaos, on the dirty floor, lay what remained of Edmund Renfro — or rather, a body with its head ripped open halfway through the skull. The internal explosion, born of pure will and magic, had turned his skull inside out. Half the head was missing — in its place on the floor and walls were gaudy splatters of brain matter, bone fragments, and blood. One of the detached skull pieces, a matte white shard, was stuck in the wood like a monstrous trophy.
Arcturus Malfoy's clothing, an expensive silk cloak from the old, black-as-night Acromantulas of Borneo-Nova, trimmed with silver, still looked dignified… but now it was worthy of a butcher or a murderer. The dark fabric hadn't absorbed the blood, but it was covered in his own dried blood and the fresh, crimson-purple blood of his tormentor. On his right shoulder and part of his face clung shreds of something soft and gray. The sight was repulsive, like a butcher after work, not the thirteen-year-old heir of two ancient and noble British families.
Arcturus stood, swaying, amid this nightmare. His face, pale and scarred with abrasions, was distorted by an inhuman grimace — something between cold rage and the snarl of a madman. Sky-blue eyes could no longer be associated with the sky... only with hellish blue flame. They burned with a cold, insane fire, radiating bottomless, searing fury ready to be unleashed upon his victim. The broken arm hanging limply sharply contrasted with the right hand covered in blood and brain matter, but firmly gripping the enemy's fallen wand.
His gaze was fixed on the last surviving kidnapper. The man was pinned to the wall, bound by the magical ropes of an Incarcerous spell and paralyzed by Petrificus. His eyes, full of animal terror, darted wildly around the room, unable to tear themselves away from the mutilated body of his accomplice and from the demonic figure standing before him.
"You know…" Arcturus's voice was a hoarse whisper, cutting through the silence like a rusty saw. "I'd like to skin you alive. Strip by strip. So you understand all the pain from the Cruciatus, since unlike your friend, I don't know that forbidden curse!"
He took a step, his foot sliding in a pool of blood, but he kept his balance, never ceasing to speak. His words flowed into the quiet insanity of a broken man… mentally shattered. Nothing in the world seemed capable of challenging the herald of horror now, the manifestation of one of the deadly sins: WRATH. Only it had allowed Arcturus to survive, and it was also his greatest weakness at this moment. His consciousness was clouded by anger. Anger so monstrous it was not inherent to humans.
An ancient, family curse, as old as the Blacks themselves, one that horrified both the Blacks and the entire world while they lived.
"I'd like to dislocate every joint… break every bone in your worthless body!" The boy's voice shifted from a cold hiss to a roar. Fury was in every word. "I'd listen with delight to you wheezing... But I have another idea."
He laughed — shortly, but so insanely that genuine horror gripped the adult wizard's heart.
"But then I wouldn't learn anything, right? And I… need to know who you are and why you did all this. And I'm also curious to test something." He kicked a bloodied shred of flesh, and the splatter hit the wall. "The Middle Ages had many sophisticated tortures. But there was one very cruel one… that left no traces. Only madness, if they didn't kill you in the end!"
Arcturus leaned closer to Oliver's frozen face, his whisper almost tender.
"In Ancient China, people feared this torture so much they prayed for any other execution, any other torture, for death! Can you imagine!?" His eyes sparkled with manic delight. "And in Europe… they soaked feet in saltwater and brought a goat. It licked the salt with its rough tongue… tickled… until the victim went mad."
He straightened up, and his smile widened, baring his teeth. It was the most terrifying sight — a beaten, bloodied child with the face of a rapturous madman.
"And you know what? I never got to finish this torture, because it's too cruel for school! But you deserve it… maybe not as much as your friend with the split skull, but nothing… for the pain from the Cruciatus… I'll take my revenge on you! Let's see if it's true that prolonged tickling breaks people and makes them beg for death. Just to make it stop! And it's so… harmless. How ironic. Not a drop of blood, just pure laughter!"
He paused, savoring the terror in his enemy's eyes.
"All this, of course, is for information! I'm not a sadist, I won't torture for no reason. Ahahaha!" He burst into laughter, but the laughter didn't eclipse the anger... consuming his consciousness. And his smile grew wider, more insane. "Although… after you tell me everything, I'll still burn you alive. Very... slowly. Savoring your screams! But that's just a bonus from the executioner."
He waved the wand.
"Finite."
The paralysis weakened. Oliver finally could move somewhat, convulsively, with a wheeze, drawing air into his lungs.
"Well?" Arcturus asked softly, like an old friend. "Have something to say? Save us time?"
"You… you damned lunatic! Mordred's get!" Oliver exhaled, his voice breaking into a screech. "Should have… killed you right away!"
The fury smoldering in Arcturus's eyes flared with renewed force. Yet outwardly, only his smirk grew more pronounced. A smirk full of 'righteous' anger.
"I was hoping for such an answer. Otherwise, we haven't even started. Petrificus Totalus!"
Paralysis seized Oliver again. His body froze in an unnatural pose, only his eyes continuing to dart wildly, full of terror.
"Titillando!"
The effect was instant and horrifying. Oliver's body, bound by paralysis, couldn't thrash, but hell broke loose inside. Magic penetrated deep under the skin, tickling the most sensitive nerve endings, the diaphragm, the intercostal muscles. Just a spell children played with.
If at first it wasn't anything overly terrible, it quickly became much worse. The body began to vibrate from continuous spasms. The face turned crimson-purple, veins on the neck and temples bulged, ready to burst. Tears streamed from his rolling eyes, mixing with saliva and mucus.
Oliver couldn't breathe. Every attempt to inhale was interrupted by a new fit of convulsive laughter that couldn't escape due to the paralysis. A hoarse, choking sound, like the death throes of an animal, stuck in his throat. His diaphragm contracted painfully, creating the sensation that his ribs were about to break from internal tension.
Arcturus observed with scientific interest, leaning close to the victim's face.
"Feel your abdominal muscles cramping?" his whisper was full of relish. "Those are muscle spasms. From prolonged, unceasing laughter. Soon, convulsions of the respiratory muscles will start. You'll suffocate, laughing! I told you I'D KILL YOU! KILL ALL!"
He cast the spell once more, for who knows which time. Oliver felt his consciousness begin to swim from lack of oxygen. His ears rang, and dark spots danced before his eyes. Every cell in his body screamed from overexertion, but the laughter continued, having become an instrument of torture tearing him apart from within.
After ten minutes of continuous torture, Arcturus stopped temporarily. Oliver convulsively gulped air, his body trembling with a fine tremor like an epileptic fit.
"Ready to talk?" Arcturus asked tenderly. "Or shall we continue our fun? How many of you are here!? Who are you? What's your surname? Why did you do this!?"
Oliver's eyes showed not just suffering, but genuine agony. He nodded, unable to utter a word, saliva dripping from his chin.
But even after getting the first answers to his questions, Arcturus didn't stop. Each new piece of information he "rewarded" with another session of torture, plunging Oliver deeper into an abyss of suffering. But now without paralysis. Soon, he began shouting information without any prompting— just to stop this hellish torment tearing his mind apart.
Arcturus listened, and his bloodied face was illuminated by the same calm, manic smile. He had found the perfect way to vent his rage — with such a seemingly harmless method. But after obtaining all the information, he would certainly keep his promise. And this room would become even hotter.
Except that the Black by blood failed to notice how his clear mind, which had returned at some point and allowed him to think of extracting information first, had begun to fade again. Fading with each new spell, replaced by that same horrifying anger. Pure, dark fury, eclipsing consciousness.