Chef

When Sirius woke the next morning, Rabastan Lestrange was kneeling behind his cell door—

He still wore yesterday's clothes. Cold sweat had soaked his collar, blackened blood stained both cuffs, and scratches covered his exposed hands and forearms. Several fingernails had split down the middle.

He remained on his knees, facing the end of the corridor, though his body jerked beyond his control now and then. His eyes were bloodshot.

Sirius had no idea what Gavin had done yesterday. He only knew Rabastan had screamed all night.

By the small hours, Sirius had finally grown used to the screams and fallen into a deep sleep to their sound.

When he woke, Rabastan still had all his arms and legs.

None of them looked particularly usable.

Rookwood was awake too. He sat against the wall diagonally across from Sirius, those sheets of parchment on his knees. His quill hovered in midair without ever touching the page.

No one dared ask what had happened last night.

Only Rabastan remembered.

After Fudge left, Gavin conjured a chair and sat down, then took out a freshly organized list of Dark Magic.

Blood that burned, bones that tightened, senses thrown out of alignment, muscles contracting the wrong way...

Over the past few days, he had traded with prisoners for these spells. If one could be used on a living person without killing him immediately, Gavin tried it. He tested almost every one.

He crossed out the failures and recorded the effects of the successes. When his control was not precise enough, he tried again.

As long as Rabastan could answer questions, the next experiment went ahead.

At first, Rabastan cursed him. Then he begged for mercy. In the end, he could only describe, in broken phrases, where it hurt, how badly, and for how long,