Chapter 1
Pain cleaves clean through his shaking body—Percival gasps, cries out wordlessly and twists away from prying hands as Grindelwald gives him a soothing smile, pushing Percival’s matted hair out of his eyes.
“Doesn’t it hurt, Percy? Why do you fight? Don’t you want it to be over?” A swish of a wand and Percival shakes apart, heaving ragged sobs in response to the fresh, stuttering burst of agony in his back. He’s face-down on the bloodstained tiles, rasping breaths hitching in his throat everytime he inhales—an ugly wound bisects his nose, runs down the length of his face and stops in a brutal gash along his throat. Grindelwald sighs and yanks his head up callously, forcing a Blood Replenisher potion down Percival’s throat—the auror coughs and sputters at the brutal violation, eyes watering as he starts to dry heave.
“Aren’t you tired of being so stubborn? Look where stubbornness has gotten you. Isn’t it exhausting?” A hand cups his face and he whimpers at the feeling of the dark wizard probing his mind, forcing his mental shields to remain as they are. Grindelwald tsks at him disappointedly—agony roars in Percival’s ears and he sucks in cold air desperately, his constricted lungs screaming for oxygen. The slashing curse is a particular favourite of Grindelwald’s—the man’s wand flicks lazily over and over again, carving crimson lines into his back with every movement, deep enough to score bone.
“Shh, Percy. Let me in. I’ll take care of you.” Gentle hands, a stark difference from the previous displays of cruelty, caress his head, tilt Percival’s chin up so Grindelwald can tug him into a rough kiss—Percival whines weakly, struggles before screaming hoarsely as a spell crushes his clavicle without a second thought, the sound of snapped bone serving as a makeshift reminder of the consequences of defiance.
Blood collects in his mouth as he gags slightly and spits it out with his remaining energy; it runs down his chin, but he can’t bring himself to care about how unsanitary it is. Blue eyes flash menacingly at him; there’s a word, a spell of some sort and then his chest constricts, crushed under the overwhelming pressure—he can’t breathe, every inhalation feeling like there are hot knives being stabbed into his ribcage. Coughing wetly, unfocused eyes hazily lock onto where his blood splatters the tiles.
Agony erupts in his head as Grindelwald tears through his mind like it’s nothing more than a toy, wracking coughs ripping through Percival, the auror forcing himself to maintain his shields—he just has to endure this, he has to—his wrist snaps backwards and he doesn’t even have the energy to scream anymore, simply letting out harsh, grating sobs that drain him more than anything.
The simultaneous mental and physical attacks are taking its toll on his body. Percival jerks limply at the third Crucio, hazy panic welling up in his chest as Grindelwald wrestles his way through Percival’s first line of defence; a conjured dragon greets him as the second, breathing violet flames as Grindelwald curses lowly and yanks himself out of Percival’s mind again. The director smiles mirthlessly up at the dark wizard with bloody lips—if he dies here, at least he’ll die without having given his memories to Grindelwald, and that’s the best he can hope for.
Grindelwald is saying something, but his eardrums have ruptured long ago—he lets himself sink into agony’s welcoming embrace, letting the pain wrap around him like a shroud, and then he opens his eyes.
He’s lying in a crumpled heap on the floor—his breathing stops when he shifts minutely and reopens the lacerations decorating his back, Percival having to forcibly remind himself to inhale and exhale at regular intervals. A fine tremor runs through his body as he eyes his blood-soaked shirt; dazedly, he remembers that the shirt had been white when he’d put it on. Now, it’s brown, crusted with his own blood.
His mouth tastes of copper; Percival’s slightly proud that he hasn’t bitten clean through his tongue yet, like what he’d expected initially. Coagulated blood line his lips and stain his teeth grotesquely, Percival spitting out fat, slimy dollops of dark crimson. He still can’t hear anything; the lack of sound is mostly what unsettles him. He’s never been good with sensory deprivation, especially since his job as Director makes it so he relies on all five senses at all times. Without his hearing…
He compartmentalises the razor-edged thoughts that threaten to send him into a downwards spiral. If he starts to panic, he won’t be in any shape to get out of here. Sitting up with a grunt of effort, sweat trickles into his eyes as he runs his left hand over the brick walls, his right too mangled to be of any use. One eye is swelled shut, but he can still make out details; a hysterical, humorless laugh escapes his ruptured vocal cords as he realises where he is.
Mercy Lewis forgive him, he’s in his own fucking basement.
“Fucking...shit.” He wheezes out a choked snort, almost too tired to admire how comedic this is. He hadn’t noticed it before, the tiles coated with slick blood as they are, but now he’s certain. This is his own basement and Grindelwald is torturing him in his own house.
He can’t access his magic—vaguely, he can sense Grindelwald’s magical signature laced into the very bricks of the room, wards humming with significant power; it most likely restricts his magic, makes it so he’s nothing more than a No-Maj.
Percival reassesses the situation. He’s not restrained, but his injuries stop him from being able to move freely. He cannot hear, his vocal cords are a few inches from being severed fully, his magic is tantalisingly out of reach and he is mildly dehydrated. All in all, not a very good start, but at least he knows Grindelwald’s short-term goals—to break through his Occlumency barriers and take his memories.
He examines his mental shields, frowning tightly at the miniscule cracks he finds as he builds them back up. If he can hold out a little while longer, endure the torture he’ll be put under, he’s sure someone will eventually notice the difference between him and Grindelwald. As the Lord of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Graves, his Lordship Ring prevented Grindelwald from Polyjuicing him, forcing the dark wizard to use Transfiguration to masquerade as Percival.
The door opens and Percival forces himself not to flinch. The utter silence that remains unperturbed even as Grindelwald walks towards him makes slight fear flutter in his heart, even if he’ll never admit it. Percival’s own wand touches his forehead, the holder giving him a cruel smirk that splits his face open, like a bloody, gaping wound. Slowly, his hearing comes back, but Percival knows that there will be a catch.
“Ready for another round, Director?”