Work Text:
You Have to Remember Your name
The prisoner lay on the cellar floor. She had lost track of time, almost forgotten what it had been like to see the sun, or eat a proper meal. Had she been trapped there weeks, months, years even? She could no longer remember. Day after day, night after night, she lay there chained; fed just enough to be kept alive for their amusement. The darkness filled her with terrors, but the light was worse. With the light came the questioning. She had told the questioners all that she knew, but it was never enough. She invented things, in the hope that she could satisfy them. But, she could never satisfy them; men and women without pity, without a conscience, skilled at applying hot irons, pincers, hooks; skilled at casting spells of wasting, or swelling, or pain. She did remember what they had done to her. When she had been stronger, willing to answer them back and defy them. Whipping, beating, racking. And that other thing. But, never going so far as to kill her. They were not that merciful.
The worst had been what they did to her fingers and toes. It was a game to the Young Master. “What body part don’t you need?” he had called out merrily, the first time. “Your little finger. You don’t use that for much do you? Let’s play a game. You win, if you can guess where you are, and why I’m doing this. I win, if you beg me to cut if off.” “And if I guess right, will you let me go?” she had asked. He had laughed and simply replied “If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention. “ Not that it had mattered. He had won the game. Easily. From time to time, she would be dragged upstairs for more amusement. He would skin one finger, or one toe, and then return her to the cellar. The flesh would dry out, and fester, almost driving her mad with pain. Eventually, she would call out, begging her to cut it off and end the pain. Only when she begged would he oblige. He always won the game.
Once, she had tried to end the pain herself, with her own teeth. The Young Master had not been pleased, and such insolence had cost her another toe. You have to remember your name. Scum. It rhymes with dumb..
She had escaped, once, long ago. Mr. Ollivander had placed the imperius curse on Wormtail, and they had crept out of the cellar. She had hugged him as they slipped out of a back door, into the grounds of the Manor. It was still dark. The estate was huge, but she thought they could reach safety within a few hours. She had been wrong.
At sunrise, she heard the baying of hounds. She realised it was just another of the Young Master’s games. She said they should split up, so that at least one would get away. But Ollivander had been scared to leave her, and by midday, he had run them down. Ollivander had tried to curse him, but he was not Wormtail. He laughed, and shrugged it off. “Crucio” he had cried, making the old man writhe on the ground, seemingly for hours. Then, he turned to his hounds, shouting “Come on girls, dinner!” The hounds had leapt forward, tearing Olivander to pieces, savouring every mouthful of his flesh. She still remembered his screaming. She had learnt that when his victims gave him good sport, he would name one of the puppies after him. When the next litter arrived, one would be called Garrick.
She heard something scurrying in the darkness. A rat. Food. Ages ago, when people still called her by her name, the thought of eating a rat would have made her vomit. Now her stomach rumbled, and her mouth filled with saliva in anticipation. Swiftly she grabbed it, and wrung its neck. Even with half her teeth broken, she was able to bite deeply into its flesh. She had never tasted such sweet meat, and devoured every part of it. The liver was the choicest morsel, and she wept with happiness as she chewed it.
A sound. Someone was opening the door. It wasn’t fair, to catch her just as she was eating her prize. She cringed back as light flooded into the cellar. Wormtail and Fenrir peered in. “Should we wash her” whined Wormtail. “Why? The young master prefers her stinky” replied the werewolf. He unlocked her manacles, dragged her up, and led her out into the corridor. He half pushed her, half dragged her up a flight of stairs, and down a stone-flagged corridor. She hobbled into the main hall. There she saw the Young Lord, leaning back in his chair, feet on the table, a goblet of wine in his hand, laughing with Crabbe and Goyle.
“There she is. Scum, my sour old friend” he said, removing his feet, and dropping forward to the table, “though I swear she smells of the grave.” “She smells of nightsoil and vomit” muttered Goyle. Draco’s smile faded. “There’s blood on your mouth. Have you been eating your fingers again? You know that I forbid it.” “It was a rat m’lord.” Draco frowned, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “The rats of Malfoy Manor belong to my lord father. Did he give you permission to eat one?” “I was hungry, m’lord” she cried. There was an ominous silence, and then he smiled again. “I forgive you. It just so happens, that we need you to perform a service for us. Some old friends will shortly join you in the cellar. One in particular, requires your assistance. You should be very grateful that she likes you. Not even I can refuse her request that you accompany her, when she leaves. You’d like that wouldn’t you? We’ll take you out of that nasty cellar, give you a bath and feed you up. Well?” “I’m your Scum, m'lord. I only want to serve you.”
You have to remember your name.
Lovegood. It rhymes with love food.