The Rescuee, Part 1
Warnings for: aftermath of torture, nudity, reference to rape/non-con
Dialogue marker: underlined dialogue for parseltongue
Black Lodge, 31st October 2003
I Portkeyed from the Ministry’s visitor’s entrance to a secluded spot on one of the piers in Blackpool, thankful that I brought it and a few of its getaway fellows with me. A briefly stolen boat brought me into the morning fog and, after setting timed Banishing and Signature-Scrubbing Charms to return it to where I had found it, took a second Portkey to Norway.
And here I am: on the porch of a “small” Black property deep in the mountainous pinewoods hundreds of miles away from my starting point, barely five minutes after I burst out of the modified phone booth that hides the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry, and about ten minutes after I made a mad dash out of the Department of Mysteries.
I hope Justin and our rescuee are all right, and Hermione won’t be too mad at me.
Somewhat trepidatiously, I fish out the portable-flat trunk out of my pocket, enlarge it, put a shield in front of my face, lift the lid a little, and peek down into the flat.
Hermione immediately stands below it and glares up the ladder at me.
“Couldn’t chance it,” I defend myself. “How’s Justin and the man?”
She scowls, but thankfully answers, however grudgingly, “They’re good enough. Finch-Fletchley is awake. Threw up a little but otherwise good enough. The man’s–” her face crumples, entirely distraught “–he’s still spasming, though not screaming anymore. I renewed your Cushioning Charm on him. It’ll last perhaps five more minutes.”
I wince. Five minutes. For an enduring spell like a Cushioning Charm, it means the charm is constantly and enthusiastically made use of by the person or thing being charmed. And, for the poor man, it means he’s still in a situation as bad as before, just not screaming anymore… which is worse in my book, because it might mean his throat giving out, or his energy, or… worse.
“I’m coming down now,” I tell her and yank the lid fully open.
“No!” she hisses, alarmed. “Where are you? It’ll take time! You must find a safe place first and–.”
“I’m at a Black property, Mione,” I cut in impatiently. “All right, I’ll put the trunk inside the house, but I’m coming down there next, no argument.”
I do just that, while calling out for any Black elves who might be stationed here.
Three pop in, just as I park the portable-flat trunk in the entrance room beside the front door.
“Guard this trunk,” I tell the left-most one before any of them can say anything, fearing that I’m running out of time to at least try to soothe our rescuee before the end. “If you see a man with black skin, don’t let him out unless I tell you.” Turning to the middle one next, I tell… her?… to prepare the house for four people.
“You come down with me and help me or Justin with things,” I tell the right-most elf, last.
Damn. I’m feeling guilty already for ordering them so succinctly, without even an attempt to know their names. But there’s no time!
Portable Flat at Black Lodge, 31st October 2003
I jump into the trunk without use of the ladder, slowing myself down in the last split-second with a wandless Cushioning Charm that sees me bounce a few times as I rush away from the opening.
It’s not hard to find the three people that I dropped in here while in the Department of Mysteries. They need my authorisation to move in deeper than the entrance room, after all, and one of them is incapacitated, unable to move anywhere under his own feet.
Justin is woozily trying to stand, using one of the walls as leverage. “Just sit down and drink a stomach soother, Justin,” I shake my head. “You can’t treat him while you yourself need treating.”
“What can I do, Harry?” Hermione’s standing wringing her hands beside the spasming, gasping and whimpering form of the man we rescued… whom now I can see has a strange golden tattoo on his forehead. “There’s nothing here, just walls.”
I shake my head again, as I levitate our rescuee before me. “Haven’t keyed you in yet. Later. Go help Justin, Mione. Holler if both of you want anything that the house-elves can’t provide. Ask for help from a house-elf if you need something, otherwise.”
I dive past the wards that separate the entrance room from the rest of the flat, then, jogging right to the bathroom, past the potions lab, kitchen and storeroom.
Damn. I wish I put my bedroom and bathroom near the entrance.
But then, I put wards round that place for a good reason, namely my stupid luck.
“Hold on,” I beg the man, as I lower him onto the tiled floor of the shower area. “You’re safe. We’re safe. Hold on.” I enlarge the area to fit his large, hulking frame, then belatedly warm and cushion the floor to hopefully make him more comfortable. “I’m going to clean you up, all right? You’ll feel comfier, after that.”
“Introduce him slowly to the water, Potter,” Justin’s voice suddenly sounds in my ear.
I flinch. I forgot that we’re still cloaked and connected to each other. It’s a miracle that the house-elves appeared when I called. They shouldn’t have been able to hear me, when I’m fully cloaked like this.
“All right. All right,” I mutter, while willing our cloaking defence to partially fade, so that the house-elves and this man can hear and see us. “All right.” I repeat my words to our rescuee as I run the water off to the side through my hand, testing its pressure and temperature. “All right. Here we go. – Oh.”
The man flinches weakly away from my bare hand, which happens to land on his hip. “Oh. Oh.”
I feel sick, even sicker than before.
“What, Harry?” Hermione squeaks, distressed. “Come on. Let me through. Let me help.”
The man flinches again, even tries to scoot away without avail judging from the twitches on his other side farther from me, when he hears her voice.
He didn’t flinch, when he heard my voice before this.
“Mione,” I take a ragged breath, “we are partially decloaked, now. He can hear you. Please don’t speak if there’s nothing quite urgent, for now. Female voice makes him anxious. We’ll talk, later.”
“Oh.” Hermione sounds horrified, and sick. Smart girl, unfortunately in this case.
I work without any interruption from anybody, not even from our rescuee, after that, while I keep a running commentary on what I’m doing, more for the benefit of our rescuee than anything else.
And then I interrupt myself, when I’m about to clean his midriff.
The centre of the midriff is twitching on its own.
As if there’s something moving under the skin.
And there’s indeed an opening there, X-shaped.
Gingerly, I touch the side of the opening, then press it a little.
The movements underneath becomes more frantic, and the man groans.
I flinch back as if scalded. “Sorry.”
A small head peeks out of the opening before I can say or do anything else. It looks like the cross between a snake, an eel, and an oversized caterpillar, with bleary, tiny red eyes.
It looks harmless, like a baby. But it freaks me out.
An oversized maggot, coming out of a living person’s stomach.
“Hey, who are you?” I blurt out.
And it answers, in a tiny squeak that my mind interprets as traumatic fear.
Oh. I was speaking Parseltongue, apparently. So this might be a baby snake.
A baby snake in a human’s stomach.
Ewwww.