Torn

Disclaimer: I am JK Rowling, and I rule all!!!!! How I wish this were true. Oh, and the title is from a White Stripes song.

A/N: I give you all permission to form your fingers into the shape of a gun and send telepathic bullets in my general direction. Why? You ask? Well first of all you're asking this question then forget I said anything. I know I took ages to have this itty bitty one out. No excuses this time. Nothing. I actually decided to take a little time off from the fanfiction world and I started on my own stuff. Then I stumbled on a few bookmarked stories on portkey (TheBlackPearl's and Donovan Potter's stuff), watched a couple movies, heard some songs here and there, and had a stimulating conversation with a random professor I met on the subway about who would win in a cage match to the death: Wolverine or Batman. I became inspired. So here's the outcome of all that. Actually, there's much more, I just decided to divide it into two chapters. Just sprucing up ch. 17 so that should be up in a bit.

All of your reviews are uplifting and inspiring. I thank you all for your patience. And on with the show:

*******

There was a scratching sound and a small burst of flame sprang to life, piercing the pitch-black room. Taking a candle in one hand, she fed the light to the wick and watched as it caught flame. Emma Dobbs brought the candle closer to the group huddled in the corner of the small room that served as their prison. She set the candle by Petra's side and took Orla's head onto her lap once more. The girl appeared to be sleeping. Her breaths were faint, but her eyes were shut. Her injured arm lay unmoving at her side.

Emma brushed her hair out of her eyes with a huff and looked at the youngest of them treating `the stupid one'. She called Adel the stupid one, for many reasons. The first could easily be spotted just by looking at the girl, whose shallow breaths were steadily becoming deep with each intake, and whose arms, caked with blood, now and then clutched Petra's robes in an effort to still the pain flashing through her. Adel's chattering teeth clenched once more in a sign that yet another wave was slicing through her innards.

“Try to keep still, Adel. I know it hurts, but I can't help you if you don't keep still,” Petra said, bringing a hand to the girl's forehead.

How Petra could sooth the young Hufflepuff without magic's aide was beyond Emma. The girl couldn't even heal her own scrapes and bruises, and she too looked a right mess, what with her torn clothing, her slightly bruised features and the small bump on her head from her fall when the Cruciatus had taken her. But she seemed to be faring all right.

Adel was also hit by the Cruciatus just moments before Petra, but she continued to shake and whimper and clench her teeth in the aftermath. Emma felt a stirring in her chest as she looked at Petra hovering over the whimpering Adel. Petra was much younger, far more inexperienced and not to mention the first one taken, and yet it was she, not Adel the nice Hufflepuff and surely not Orla the wise Ravenclaw, who was taking care of them.

Gryffindor courage at it's finest.

Adel looked as if the pain was finally subsiding. Her body slowly relaxed and she rested her head, which was pillowed on Emma's bundled robes, with her eyes staring at the ceiling; her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell as she gulped in air.

“That's it, just relax, dear. The air will come,” Petra whispered; wringing a scrap of her torn robes soaked in water. She placed the cool cloth on Adel's forehead.

“Is she going to be okay?” Emma asked her.

Petra looked up and opened her mouth to reply, but before she could say a word, Adel croaked, “I'm not dead, you know. I can hear you, and yes. I'm fine.”

Emma stared at the girl just a year her junior and a corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. Well, if she wasn't a Gryffindor she was at least, for the moment, acting like one. And if her lip didn't show it then surely her blind stupidity masking as courage had to earn her some points.

Still, Emma had to hand it to the Adel as she watched her choke down a sip of water: the girl had balls. Big enough to not only kill one of Them, but also to risk her neck to come back. Emma chewed her lip as a single thought crossed her mind, making her chin lift in shame. She pushed the thought away, but it was already stamped in her mind and singed into her memory.

If it had been me; if I'd been in her place, would I have done the same? Would I have come back?

It wasn't a thought she wanted to dwell on, and the answer to it made her clench her teeth in denial. She took a steadying breath.

“You should have been a Gryffindor,” Emma heard herself say.

Adel twisted her head to look back at her; silver glinting in the dim firelight. “The sorting hat thought so too, but I preferred Hufflepuff.”

“Never thought I'd hear anyone say that,” the words came out of Emma's mouth before she could stop herself.

Adel tried to straighten with much difficulty, ignoring Petra fussing to hold her down. “And what's wrong with Hufflepuff?” Adel asked with flaring eyes.

Don't answer. Just leave it. “Nothing. Nothing…well it's just that kids aren't exactly hoping to be in that house,” Emma said, ignoring her conscience completely.

Silver held brown

“I did.”

Brown met silver.

“Then I guess you're an exception.”

Emma winced inwardly at her words, but it was too late to take them back. There was nothing for it now. The damage was done.

Adel flushed pink and she opened her mouth, but Petra quickly stepped in, saying, “Piss off the both of you. I'm tired of your bickering. Ever since we've been here, all you two have done was glare or argue and I've had enough.”

Emma's chest puffed out and her nostrils flared in surprise. “Who are you to tell me what to do? I'm a fourth year, and you're only a firstie.”

Adel made an indignant sound in Petra's defence, but Petra held up a hand and looked at Emma in a calm manner. “You know what?” she said in a silky voice. “You're right. I am only a first year, and yes that would have mattered if we were still at Hogwarts. But guess what, Dobbs? We're bloody well not!”

Orla's hand twitched and she shifted slightly with a grimace. Emma glanced down at her briefly, but seeing that the girl had not opened her eyes, she looked back up at Petra and crossed her arms over her chest.

Adel had a satisfied smile on her face, but Petra turned to her and swiftly made her wipe it off saying, “And don't you go looking all self righteous Adel, you're just as in the wrong as Emma here.” Adel's face fell. Petra continued, “I want you both to look around us. Just look at where we bleeding are. Do our years matter any more? Are our Houses even significant in a place like this? Well?”

There were mumbled “No's” and shaking of heads. Orla grinded her teeth in her sleep and frowned.

Petra continued, “That's right. They don't. So I want all of this `my House is better than yours' nonsense to stop. If we don't stop arguing, if we don't work together then none of us will make it out here alive.”

“How are you so sure anyone will come?” Adel asked.

“Because Hermione Granger told me. Dumbledore is looking for us. Something happened back there, and it caused Hermione to get into my head somehow. She told me why they're doing this to us.” Petra had now managed to grasp their attention fully.

“What did she say?”

“You-Know-Who is after Harry Potter and He's getting him through Hermione, which means he's getting her through us.”

The girls looked at her in a mixture of shock and horror.

“There's something in our blood that connects us…” and she explained everything that Hermione had shown her. When she was finished, Adel's eyes were wide and Emma's face was stone.

“How do you know they'll come? What if they don't win?” Emma said.

Petra shook her head. “There's no point in thinking, `what if'. We're only wasting our time worrying about what's to come. I know it's hard not to worry, but we have to try not to. We will get out of this, and if they don't come- and they will- then we'll just have to find a way out ourselves.”

“You're mad. Us? Against the Y-You-Know-Who?”

“We have to try. If we don't,” Petra paused and swallowed. “Then we die.”

Adel stiffened and Emma looked at Petra with something that looked like respect in her eyes.

Petra pushed herself up on her hands and grabbed the bowl of water they had. “Wake Orla, Emma. She's gotta eat.”

“Right.”

Emma nodded and promptly began to gently shake Orla awake, whispering her name. Orla didn't open her eyes, and her body moved limply as Emma's gentle shake grew fierce and she grew frantic.

An overwhelming feeling of fear writhed in the pit of her stomach as she said her name. Louder. And louder still. Panic clutched her and she looked wildly at Adel and Petra saying, “She's not waking up. She's- she's not waking up!”

Petra rushed to her side. “Is she breathing?”

Emma bent and her heart started beating once more when she felt Orla's faint breath tickle her cheek. “Y-Yes! Oh, but it's faint.”

Adel moved beside Petra and placed her hand on Orla's forehead. “She's burning up!” she said, scooting to the bowl and placing the damp cloth on Orla's forehead.

Petra was filled with dread. Oh, please no. She brought her hands to the crude bandage around Orla's arm. “Why didn't you say so before, Emma?”

“I-I-I didn't know. Honestly. I thought she was just hot and uncomfortable. It never occurred to me.”

“Are you daft?! Her temperature is shooting up! How could you not tell?!” Adel shrieked, fear shaking her voice.

Petra bit her lip and her grimaced as a faint stench filled her sensitive nostrils. Please let me wrong. She thought, but the offending smell told her otherwise and so did the girls' reactions.

“Ugh! Oh that's horrid! What is that smell?” said Adel, covering her nose with a grimy hand.

“It's the gash in her arm,” said Petra in a shaking voice.

The cut in Orla's arm had gone yellow and slimy with pus, and the smell filled the room, mingling with the stench of sweat.

“Oh, merlin! Wha- What happened? It…it didn't look like that before,” Adel said.

“That's because it wasn't infected before,” Petra said grimly.

“Infected?” Adel uttered in a scared whisper, her eyes bulging out of her head. “But…you can fix it, right? You said your mum was a medi-witch.”

“A muggle doctor, but it's the same thing, and I can't fix it without the proper medicine. If we had our wands then maybe…” Her heart squeezed and her eyes darted helplessly around the room as her mind raced to think of a solution to this new problem; her breathing quickened as she slowly gave in to panic. “Emma!” Petra hissed, glaring at the girl. “Didn't you change her bandage?”

“With what? Scraps of our soiled robes? Our filthy shirts?”

“You could've at least bloody checked her!”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?!” Emma said in a raised voice.

“If you had checked her, we probably could've done something!”

“Done what?! Ask sodding You-Know-Who for a healing potion?! And don't you dare go blaming this shit on me. I'm not a damned medi-witch!”

“You don't need to be a bleeding doctor! You need common sense, you-”

“Shut up, you two!” Adel shouted, causing the two to grow silent and glare at her. “Bloody Gryffindors and your hot heads. Can't you see that she's sick?” Adel continued.

Three heads cast worried looks down at the grimacing girl, whose head was on fire. Emma raised a hand and gently brushed Orla's hair back. “Wormtail,” she said suddenly, and Petra and Adel's heads whipped up to look at her.

“What did you say?” Petra asked.

“Wormtail,” Emma repeated. “We have to wait for Wormtail. As much as I hate to say it, we can't do anything now but sit and wait. He should come soon. In the meantime, we've got to make her comfortable.”

“But all we've got is a bowl of water.”

“Then we use it.”

The three girls watched Orla in trepidation.

“What if she dies?” Adel whispered, breaking the thick silence that embraced them. The question hung in the air for a moment. None bothered to answer. None wanted to answer.

Beads of wax ran down the dwindling candle, and pooled around it. The small flame flickered in a steady rhythm, much like a heart struggling to beat.

******

Bile rose in the back of his throat and he struggled to swallow. “Please, master. I won't do it again, just please, master. I'll be good. I promise. I swear. Please… please.” Wormtail could hear the unpleasant squeaking of Wallace Wilmbur's voice.

His eyes itched to shut tight and lock away the images of the Death Eater, huddled on the ground just paces away from a pile of torn cloak and shredded skin. The man's name was Desmond. He had an appetite for young girls.

All that incoherent moaning over his stab wounds from the child was nothing compared to the sharp scream that had escaped from his lips the moment he had felt his own skin start to slowly peel from his body. And it was in that moment Wormtail knew he would never sleep again.

“Please,” the big man croaked from his position on the ground. His robes pooled around him and he had his face pressed against the floor slick with blood. “Please.”

The Dark Lord looked down at him in disdain. His rage filled the room, thickening the air and causing Wormtail's insides to clench in suffocation. “Do you know, Wallace, can your diminutive mind even fathom the extent of how much work I have put into this procedure?”

Wallace was sobbing now. The scene was pathetic and very disturbing. Wormtail's eyes watered from the pressure of having to keep his eyes open, but he dared not close them. The Dark Lord had ordered him and the other Death Eaters not to.

“Please, master.”

“And do you know, Wallace, that because of your stupidity, the old fool could be planning a counter attack as we speak. A year's worth of work and secrecy has gone down the drain in one fell swoop! And why? Because you and that idiot Desmond could not simply follow the rules that I have laid out.”

“Master, my Lord, Desmond-”

“Is now dead! As will you be in a few short moments.”

Wallace cried out in despair tried to throw himself at the Dark Lord's feet. With a sudden flick of Voldemort's wand, Wallace froze and his back straightened mechanically. His arms stuck to his sides and his chest heaved with each laborious breath.

The Dark Lord's steps thundered in their ears as he took to walking towards and around the kneeling man, who's frightened eyes darted to keep up with his master. His mouth hung open and his lips trembled.

Wormtail could see the beads of sweat dribbling down his face mingling with his salted shame. He wished for it to be over.

“Why, Wallace, are those tears I see?”

Wallace whimpered, but could not help the fresh batch that now stained his shining face.

“I'll have none of that. You know how I absolutely despise the thing.”

If Wallace was capable of moving, then Wormtail was sure that the man's body would be shuddering violently.

“Weakness. That is what that is. And it was weak men that caused this disruption. Weak men are the reason why Hermione and Petra were capable of exchanging information that is now impossible to retrieve.”

All Wallace could hope for now was a quick death, but those in the room knew that the doomed man would not be granted that reprieve.

“My Lord,” Wallace called out in a half whisper, half shout, but whatever we was going to say died in his throat as he felt a sudden chill run up his spine.

He was standing right behind him, and Wallace shut his eyes when he heard the smooth voice.

“It was a mistake, you said.”

Wallace felt the cold tip of a wand press against the back of his neck.

“It won't happen again, you said.”

Like a cold caress, the wand traced up the thick column.

“Well, how am I to be sure, Wallace, that you won't fail me a second time? Or a third?”

The wand lazily ran back down.

“Tell me Wallace, how am I to know if your next mistake won't cause ANOTHER REVERSAL!!”

Then the Death eater named Wallace screamed. It was one endless pitiful roar that burned into Wormtail's skull. He jumped at the sound and his eyes watered and stung. He glanced at the others around him. Some stared stonily at the horrific scene that splashed in their eyes. Others grit their teeth and swallowed the bubbling bile that rose in their throats. None moved. They did nothing but watch as one of their own died before them.

“MERCY!” Wallace managed to gurgle.

“Mercy?” the Dark Lord said almost laughingly, “There is no mercy. There are no mistakes, Wallace.”

A fresh scream tore from the man's stained lips. Wormtail's steel fingers twitched, but it was nothing compared to Wallace's jerking hands and thrashing head; the only parts he was free to move.

It was hours before silence finally filled the room. Satisfied, Voldemort turned and with cold eyes he inspect his Death Eaters. They were pale and drenched in sweat, and he knew that some wanted to turn and expel the sick that churned inside their stomachs. However, they remained still. They did not move. Fear did that to a man.

His lips pressed into a thin line showing his approval, but they would not get off so easily. Slowly he rose what was left of Wallace's limp arm. A dozen pairs of eyes followed his gesture. They knew what was to come.

Abnormally long fingers delicately touched the mark on the forearm and with a word, every single Death Eater knew of his disproval.

Wormtail let out a hiss when the pain faded and his eyes focused on his master at the sound of his name.

“Wormtail, retrieve Miss Manalo from her room. I believe she is late for her appointment.”

“Y-Yes, my Lord.” Wormtail turned to go, crimson staining the ends of his robes. He paused and said, “Who shall we take for the blood?”

The Dark Lord waved his hand carelessly. “Surprise me. Oh and Wormtail? Young Orla is ill. Her arm is infected. It seems everyone has developed a sudden fondness for sharp pointed objects.”

“You want me to heal her, my lord?”

“We still need her blood, you imbecile. Of course I want you to heal her. I want you to stay and mind her and in doing so, listen closely to what the children speak of. If a reversal were to ever happen again I want you to obtain the information from them. Make them trust you. Then bring word to me.”

“Y-Yes, my lord.”

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