Archive of Our Own

“Ugh.”

Your vision is blurry as you blink into the darkness.

Where…?

Your entire body aches as cold, damp stone insistently presses against your cheek.

Slowly, you wrench your twisted arm out from under your torso, struggling to use the tingling limb to push yourself into a sitting position.

The room swirls around you, so you squeeze your eyes shut, tilting your face towards the source of light above you.

You attempt to focus, to take deep, regulating breaths as you try to remember - to put together the pieces of what might be happening.

Rookwood – he’d approached you outside of Ollivander’s. He’d uttered something that inadvertently revealed his responsibility for Anne's curse, and then, you moved to attack him, just as a distinctive pop echoed through the disturbingly quiet streets of Hogsmeade…

Apparition! Someone else had arrived, and…

Beyond that, you can’t recall, but you’ve obviously been taken somewhere, and – patting your robes down for your wand – disarmed.

You sigh and crack your eyes open, staring straight up into what appears to be a grated opening in the ceiling. The light above reflects an evening sky, and you can smell the scent of earth seeping through, almost as if you’re in a tomb. Finally feeling well enough to look around, you immediately recognize where you are.

That bastard.

You gingerly get to your feet, feeling at best unsettled, and properly inspect your surrounds. Thick, rusted shackles dangle from stone walls, dark with age, water trickling down in places. The floor is littered with sparse amounts of straw as if for a barnyard animal. All these contribute to an overall atmosphere of hopelessness and despair.

You approach the wrought iron door, noting the room beyond – there’s no doubt about it: you’re in the Ashwinder’s Hideout under the Hog’s Head, in the very same cell that had held Natty when she and Isko Rabe had been captured.

You grip the bars, pushing and pulling at them desperately – the rough metal digging into the sensitive flesh of your fingers and palms. Having struggled with the door until your hands are bleeding, you then try to scale the walls – hoping to access the grated window in the ceiling. By the end of this futile endeavor, your fingernails are ragged and bloody, and you collapse into an exhausted heap, sobbing in both fear and frustration as darkness begins to descend in earnest on your cell with the setting of the sun.

Nobody knows where I am…

You’ve killed many a dark wizard, sure, and are an exceedingly powerful witch, but… never without my wand.

And so, finally, Victor Rookwood has you exactly where he wants you.

Your sobs grow louder and your face contorts into a sort of grimace as tears flow. “Let me out! Somebody! Please, help me!”

You're bawling outright then, crying harder than you have in a very long time, and you realize your pain is not only because you’re alone and helpless but also for everything else you’ve never cried about – George Osric, though you only knew him for a few seconds; how you’ve let Sebastian down, or will let him down; how you’ve failed to help Anne; how you failed to save Lodgok, and left his body to rot in a cave somewhere..

You howl in grief, your mind racing as you consider the many ways you’d like to pulverize the comically top-hatted villain for cursing Anne.

Then suddenly, you go quiet.

Anne...

The sudden realization tears the air from your lungs.

If I kill Rookwood, Anne’s curse may never lift.

If you want to help Anne, you reason, you will need to cooperate with Rookwood. Bargain with him.. For some length of time at least. Only long enough for him to reverse the curse. The helplessness hits you harder than ever at the realization, crushing your very soul.

You won’t be able to blast your way out of this one, even if you can get a hold of your wand.

“You win… You win, dammit! Rookwood!” you cry, the desperation evident in your voice as your shout turns into a near-scream. “Victor, please!”

The silence is deafening, and for some minutes you sit on a tiny mound of straw, straining to hear any approaching sound.

Then, finally, there it is – the creak of a large wooden door opening, and the sound of footsteps.

You barely dare to look up when the door to your cell swings open, instead your eyes follow the sounds to a pair of shoes, the highly-polished leather shining underneath tailored spats, as the door closes behind their occupant.

Rookwood doesn’t wear spats.

“Oh, ‘ow the migh’y ‘ave fallen,” a familiar voice gloats, drawing your eyes upward towards the face of the Soldier. In the dim light, his mask looks almost white, and you can tell he’s grinning at you behind it.

You look away stubbornly as the man crouches in front of you.

“Now, now, that’s no way to be'ave,” he admonishes playfully. “You’ll be wantin’ what I got fer ya.”

There’s a clatter as the man sets down a large metal tray, and you deign to peek from the corner of your eyes as his elegantly-gloved hands remove the lid and reveal a bowl of porridge, a single dinner roll, and a flagon of butterbeer or mead.

Your stomach immediately begins growling.

“Will ‘ave been awhile since ye’ve eaten, I wager.”

The man gets to his feet, looking down at you as if studying your features. The thought that he must be able to tell that you’ve been crying crosses your mind, and your face flushes in embarrassment.

The Soldier leans forward. “Yer real cute like this, capeflapper,” he musses your hair, causing you to flinch away, “when yer not runnin’ round murderin’ people an doin’ body binds an’ such.” The Soldier's tone is almost affectionate if condescending, but the undercurrent of danger does not escape your observation.

The Ashwinder crouches lower, looming uncomfortably close. You’re certain that, but for the mask, you would surely feel his breath on your neck, but you daren't move – with nowhere to go, and no wish to escalate the situation.

“Once Rookwood’s got what ‘e wants, it’ll be us next,” he hums, both the low whisper and meaning behind his words sending shivers down your spine. “An’ I don’t jus’ mean target practice fer dark curses neither.”

A single, tiny sob escapes your lips, earning a chuckle from the well-dressed wizard. Getting to his feet, he makes a show of brushing imagined dust off of his trousers and gives his vest a quick tug to ensure it’s in place.

“Could be a lot worse, ya know," he offers. "Rookwood treats ‘is prisoners good. ‘Asn’t tortured anyone in years." You can't be certain whether the wizard is genuinely trying to reassure you or frighten you further. He pauses for a moment as if in thought. "Least not that I’ve ‘eard of.”

Then the Soldier is gone, the door shut firmly behind him, locking with a heavy clank.

In light of the fate that the Ashwinder has promised, you can’t even look at the tray – the mere thought of the porridge, already going cold, makes your stomach churn, empty though it may be.

Desperate for some small measure of comfort, you curl up in the fetal position on your small patch of straw, tucking your face into your robes and pulling the hood down as far as it’ll go, and will yourself into unconsciousness.

You've been drifting in and out of fitful sleep for what seems like hours, but when your eyes fly open, you still have just enough light to make out the silhouette of a figure looking down at you.

The godsforsaken hat is unmistakable, and in your half-awake haze, you let out a little yelp of surprise.

Rookwood responds with a low, rumbly chortle that does nothing to ease your nerves.

Never one to be caught off guard, you immediately get to your feet, hastily shaking the sleep off of you.

"Glad you could join us, Sleeping Beauty," the dark wizard teases mockingly, flicking his wand casually over his shoulder to raise the lights in the room behind.

"Ah.. There we are," he purrs, taking a step closer towards you as your features are illuminated by the candlelight.

Your pride is a bitter pill to swallow, and your face scrunches up slightly for a fraction of a second as if you're going to cry. Instead, you school your features to those of austere politeness and look directly at the villainous figure.

"Rookwood."

Your voice sounds a lot smaller, softer than you'd hoped.

"Rookwood, now, is it?" he chuckles, nakedly assessing you. You stifle a flinch as he reaches forward, almost imperceptibly grazing the sensitive skin of your face with the backs of his fingernails.

"Rookwood, and not... Victor?"

Your eyes flit to his just long enough to read the utter enjoyment of your discomfort there. Unable to hold them, you look away, and the man allows you a moment before you turn back to him.

"Well, do your worst," you insist, bracing yourself for the inevitable Crucio.

Rookwood frowns. It takes you a moment to realize that his wand isn't even drawn.

Well, maybe... For Anne.

It's difficult for you to muster the humility required for those two simple syllables. It's almost as if it were in itself a plea for mercy.

"Victor." It's said barely-audibly, almost without breath, but your plea has not gone unnoticed.

"That's better," the dark wizard grins, allowing his hand to drop from beside your head. "After all, if we are to be business partners, we really ought to be on a first name basis."

Business partners... you mouth the words, sticky on your tongue.

Rookwood nods, taking a step closer to you. You watch warily as his hand comes up but, instead of stroking your face, he twists a lock of hair gently around his finger.

"So.. you don't want to hurt me? R-rape me?"

Victor scoffs. "Rape you? Never."

"But your man said.."

"Ah, yes, my men doubtless say many things," he assures you with a dismissive flex of a ruffled wrist. "Wishful thinking, perhaps. The entire gang is quite aggrieved by your behavior and, well, you are quite the beauty.."

You flush deeply, stunned into silence.

"My men desperately want a bite at you, as they have expressed to me many times. And I could give you to them to play with, but it doesn't have to be that way.." the wizard says gently, almost tenderly, leaning in a half step closer.

His next words are almost a whisper, delivered in close proximity to your ear, and they seem to settle deep in your gut.

"This is your last opportunity to accept my offer. You've something I want, and I've something you want. It's as simple as that."

He pauses, awaiting the answer, which you provide hesitantly with a nod.

"And what is it that you want, darling?" he asks softly, tilting your chin up so that your eyes are almost forced to meet his gaze.

You can feel the older man's ice blue irises burning into yours, demanding obedience. Slowly, you force yourself to look at him – and at this distance, in this context, with what was just said, it feels too intense, too intimate. You find everything about this situation deeply unsettling – the subtle warmth of dark wizard's body seemingly searing into your flesh. You are paralyzed, unable to move, your logical mind warring with whatever is stirring inside you.

You swallow hard, a fire building in parts of your body that should have no part to play in any sort of encounter with this awful wizard. Without realizing, you've leaned forward a bit, closing the space between you as if yearning subconsciously for more of him – his scent, his unapologetic presence in your personal space, the threat of colliding with him physically.

Victor notices your reaction and smiles, moving just the hair's breadth distance forward required so that his clothing brushes against the skin of your arms, causing the tiny hairs on your entire body to stand on end. He leans down so that his next demand is delivered directly into your right ear.

"Tell me what you want from me."

The way he says it, a seductive near-whisper – it's like a snake winding its way down your spine and settling decidedly between your legs.

Very fitting.

The man is against you then, and you can feel his hard, masculine form pressing against your soft feminine one. You're not sure when or how it happened, but you find yourself backed against the wall – literally and figuratively.

"Tell me."

Still frozen by fear and desire, your heart going a mile a minute, you nearly faint as Victor touches you, running elegant fingers down each of your arms to rest at your wrists, which he grips firmly but gently, bringing them up to pin them against the wall besides your head.

Now this you were not expecting, and you're truly caught off guard. Rookwood has only ever berated you, ridiculed you as a "child," and now he seems interested in you in an entirely different way – desiring to possess you for reasons outside of your abilities or knowledge.

But is it genuine, or is he playing some twisted game, trying to make you putty in his hands?

Even if he is just playing a game, it's working.