Chapter Text
Prologue
The chain groaned above her with every slow sway of her body. Rose’s wrists had gone numb long ago. The pain had changed its target, retreating from her hands and settling deeper into her shoulders, her spine, and her ribs. Blood ran in thin lines down her arms and gathered at her elbows before dripping to the stone floor, where it joined the darker stains already spread beneath her bare feet.
She wore only her bra and panties, both torn and marked with blood, but there was no shame left in her for them to take. They had stripped her because men like this believed dignity lived in clothes. They had chained her because they thought strength lived in muscles. They had hurt her because they mistook cruelty for power.
Rose hung from the chain with her head bowed, black hair plastered to her face, lips split, breath coming in ragged and shallow.
The Death Eater before her raised his wand again.
“Crucio.”
Rose’s body jerked hard against the chain, her back arching, her fingers curling uselessly against the air. Her teeth sank into the torn flesh of her lip until fresh blood filled her mouth with copper warmth. The pain clawed through her nerves. They had been trying to drag screams out of her since they brought her here. Her throat tightened around it. Her chest seized. Her eyes rolled half shut.
She did not scream. She would not scream.
She twitched. She shook. She bled.
A thin, ugly breath hissed out between her teeth, but she swallowed the rest down like poison she meant to spit back in their faces later. Rose would not give them so much as a whimper.
When the curse ended, her body sagged from the chain. For a moment there was only the sound of her breathing and the faint drip of blood onto stone. One of the masked men shifted his weight. Another muttered something under his breath. The one with the wand stepped closer, robes whispering over the floor.
“Still proud of yourself, Potter?” he asked.
Rose lifted her head slowly and made a smile out of the pain before they could see the price of it. Her mouth was red. Her eyes were fever-bright. Then, softly at first, she laughed.
The sound was not pretty. It came out cracked and breathless, but it was laughter all the same. It crawled into the room and spoiled it. The Death Eaters looked at one another through the eye slits of their masks, unsure of what to do next. They had expected pleading, curses, sobs, perhaps the heroic defiance of the girl-who-lived pretending not to be afraid. They had not expected amusement.
The laughter grew.
Rose let her head fall back against her arm and laughed at them until her ribs protested.
“What is funny?” one of them snapped.
Rose’s grin widened.
Another stepped forward. “Answer him.”
She blinked slowly, as if she had forgotten they were there. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I was just thinking how stupid you all look.”
The nearest Death Eater struck her across the face with the back of his hand. Her head snapped aside, and for a breath the world went black at the edges. Blood splashed from her mouth and dotted the floor. The chain swung again. When she looked back at him, she was still smiling.
“You think Dumbledore will come and save you?” he said. “You think the old fool knows where you are? Nobody knows where you are. Even with all his power, Dumbledore will never find this place.”
At that, Rose laughed again.
The Death Eater’s wand pressed beneath her chin, forcing her face up. “What is so funny?”
Rose stared down the length of the wand at the mask behind it.
“You think I care about Dumbledore?” she asked.
No one answered.
Rose spat blood onto the floor near his boot. “I do not give a wit about the old bastard.”
Rose’s smile softened into something worse than mockery….. pity.
“You poor, stupid fucks,” she said. “You dragged me into the dark and thought the dark belonged to you. No, it does not. You merely adopted the dark. She who holds my chains was born in it, molded by it. She didn't see the light until I was already a woman, by then it was nothing but blinding!”
“You are delirious.”
“No,” Rose said. “I am listening. If you had any survival instincts so would you.”
They all went still.
For several seconds there was nothing to hear but the slow drip of blood and the faint groan of the chain. Then, somewhere far above them or far below them, a man howeld in utter agony as flesh was torn from bone. The Death Eaters turned their masked faces toward the door.
Rose watched them, and the joy that came over her battered face was terrible to behold.
“You wanted me to scream,” she said. “That was your mistake.”
The scrape came again, closer this time, followed by a sound like breath drawn through teeth that were much too sharp.
The man before her raised his wand toward the door. “Who is there?”
Rose laughed once more, low and broken and triumphant, and let her head rest against the chain as if she had finally found something worth relaxing for.
“You will not even see her coming,” she whispered.
The door exploded inward.
Something that had once been a man came through it first, hurled with such force that the thick wooden planks burst from their hinges and slammed flat against the stone floor. The corpse struck two Death Eaters before either of them could raise a wand, and the wet weight of it carried them down beneath it in a tangle of black robes, broken limbs, and splintered wood.
Only when it rolled aside did Rose see that the body had been torn into two pieces. One half lay near the threshold, steaming in the cold air. The other had skidded nearly to her feet, leaving a red smear across the floor like some obscene painter’s stroke.
For one stunned heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the darkness entered.
All Rose could hear was the terrified screams.
Later
The creature looked at her, and the proud, ruined thing she had made of herself cracked open around a helpless little sound. Her lips trembled. Her knees buckled uselessly beneath the chain.
“Please,” she whispered.
The creature took one step toward her.
Rose made a broken noise in her throat, half sob and half prayer. “Please. Please. Please.”
She did not know what she was begging for. To be cut down. To be held. To be forgiven for surviving. To be owned by something strong enough to make the world stop touching her. Need poured out of her faster than blood, raw and humiliating and impossible to hide. She hated the sound of it, and still she could not stop. A white light engulfed the creature.
When Rose blinked the light from her eyes and looked again, Fleur Delacour stood beneath the broken doorway in a white suit bright against the carnage. Silver hair fell over one shoulder. Blood darkened one hand. Her pale eyes fixed on Rose with furious tenderness.
.
.
.
“My poor little poppet,” Fleur murmured, thumb brushing the corner of Rose’s split mouth. Her pale eyes moved over the chains, the bruises, the torn cloth, and then to the dead men scattered across the room. “Whatever shall I do with you?”
Rose leaned into her hand with a broken whimper. All the laughter, all the defiance, all the stubborn little teeth she had shown the Death Eaters fell away now that there was no one left to impress. Her fingers clutched weakly at Fleur’s white jacket, smearing blood across the cloth.
“Anything,” Rose whispered. “Anything you want. Please, just take me away from here. Away from them.”
Fleur’s expression softened, but the darkness behind her still stirred like folded wings.
Rose swallowed, trembling against her. “Please, Mistress.”
For a moment, Fleur only looked at her. Then her thumb stilled against Rose’s cheek, and something possessive and terrible warmed in her gaze.
“There now,” Fleur said softly. “That is better.”