Renaissance

A/N: Thank you, Mamacita-san and refuz2luz for beta-reading! Remaining errors are all my own. Warnings: Torture, graphic violence, distorted religious justifications. It’s gonna get ugly, hang on.
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17.

Draco woke muzzy-headed, clad in only hir trousers and breast band, arms and legs manacled to the ceiling and floor of a small stone cavern filled with dozens of candles. Sie was cold, sie ached, and sie was so disoriented that it took hir a while to piece together what had happened. Sie closed hir eyes against hir budding headache and nearly groaned when sie did—the orphanage, checking in with Nick and Paul, a sneering exchange with the Weasel and that boob Finnegan, walking the grounds—and Mark had approached with the ghelshield prototype saying it had been perfected, that R&D had sent him right over, but that wasn’t the protocol and Draco had given Mark the day off for his son’s sixth birthday. Sie shouted a warning; suddenly spells were flying and sie’d been hit, felt like a damned erumpent sat on hir chest, then nothing.... It had to have been Iscariot, but how had he gotten the ghelshield, where was he now, and why was sie still alive?

Draco didn’t have time to wonder about that or anything else for long. A slight whoosh of air heralded the painful backhand across hir face. “You are awake, servant of Satan. I am not fooled by your dissembling.”

The dazed triarii gasped, then hissed as the pain registered. The blow had jostled hir position in the chains and hir ribs were likely cracked, maybe broken, in the earlier struggle at Heritage House. Sie breathed through the sharp ache and clenched hir teeth while the shocking bite of hir ribs eased a little.

“You will face me, demon! You will release Draco Malfoy! In the name of God, I command you!”

Draco resisted the urge to roll hir eyes. Instead, drawing on years of training, sie called on the infamous Malfoy sangfroid and pulled hirself straight in the chains. For now sie would hold hir tongue and wait for what Iscariot would do. Lucius had taught hir well. Never goad the one wielding the whip. It had taken a while, but the loquacious, whiny brat of hir youth had learned eventually that silence brought some peace during hir father’s maniacal disciplinary sessions.

“Dare you face me and speak your true name, demon? If you do not fear God you will speak! Or do you fear that He will guide me in closing the path to this vessel and our world should I know your name? Speak and be cast out, fiend of Hell!”

Draco glared.

Then again, sie thought, gasping as another blow landed—this one to hir purpling abdomen and with enough force to bend hir double but for the chains—Lucius would also sometimes punish hir for not crying out during the sessions. Which reminded Draco that all sie’d really learned at hir father’s hands was that crazed men are unpredictable and no matter what you do, you’ll be hurt if they’ve taken it into their heads to hurt you. Sociopaths need no reasons and accept no truths but their own.

“Answer me!” This time Iscariot’s meaty fist landed across hir mouth.

Pained wheezing and Iscariot’s impatient huffs were the only sounds in the cavern, even after he’d drawn his wand and sent curse after curse into Draco’s shaking body. Not even an extended Cruciatus coaxed the expected sounds from the tormented triarii.

The plain and sturdy man drew back as the demon stared coolly at him. Nothing! Not a sound! It just stared at him, despite what he knew was great pain of the body. This was not how it should be! The demon should have been screaming its outrage, pleading for mercy, making impossible promises if he would just free it. That was what Mother said always happened when the unclean were discovered and the holy cast them out of the vessels they’d contaminated. Had not the monster that defiled Anne screamed and begged once it realized the end was near, that he and Mother were about to banish it to the netherworld and return Anne to her rightful place as a child of God?

How could this devil—inhabiting the weaker and corrupted flesh of a Malfoy, known Dark wizards all—be stronger than that which had taken Anne—his pure, wholesome sister who died to escape the tainted body Satan’s minion had twisted into such unnaturalness? It could not be! This demon was not so mighty—he would see it brought low and then Malfoy, as Anne had in the end, would accept his fate and go willingly into the arms of redemption to live joyously in the peace that reigned in the kingdom of heaven. Yes, that was how it would be.

And once the demon was exorcised, its malicious hold on Wizarding society broken, Judas would continue his work, gathering up the lost lambs and excising their perversions to save their embattled souls. It was, as his mother had warned, a thankless task—the godless did not understand his mission; but as John the Baptist had done for the Hebrews of Galilee he, Judas, would do for wizards: he would pave the way for Christ in the hardened hearts of heathen wizards and witches.

He alone had the heart and faith to do as must be done. Like Job he would suffer for his faith; like Abraham he was willing to sacrifice; like Moses he would lead; like his sainted mother, Mary Martha, he would teach that the way of Christ’s example was one of physical hardship, but the reward of spiritual purity far outstripped the privations. Judas nodded to himself and took the latigo flogger in hand. It might be inured to the pain curse, but no one could withstand the lash for long. He knew what he must do.

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Harry had nearly paced a rut in the floor by the time Mark returned with a researcher from Malfoy Manufacturing who’d worked on the ghelshield device. Simon Grocott was a short, portly man with dark brown eyes who constantly patted his thinning comb-over as though checking that the few remaining hairs stayed put where he meant them to. His palm was clammy with nervous sweat when he shook Harry’s hand, his speech a nervous twitter when he described the ghelshield device in detail. Despite his rather lacklustre physical impression, he had managed to cobble together a “locator” that would help the Aurors pinpoint the device’s position based on the leaking residual magic. It looked to Harry like a cross between a beachside treasure finder and a divining rod; as long as it got the job done though, it could have been a lost relic of the Snorkack hunting heeble-jeebubs for all he cared.

“Y-y-you’ll w-want to b-b-be c-c-careful with tth-that,” Grocott stammered after handing over the device with the reluctance of a tinkerer who hadn’t quite finished with his latest pet project (no doubt the greatest invention in the history of mankind in his view). Harry fiddled with the control knobs. “I-it’s not been t-t-tested outside of l-l-lab c-conditions.” Harry cast him a wary look. “It’s p-p-perfectly s-s-safe, of c-course, b-b-but—”

“I’m sure it meets your usual exacting standards, Simon,” Mark reassured him, patting the podgy man’s shoulder as he led him away from the collected Aurors and Anderson agents.

Harry climbed up on one of the trestle benches and clapped his hands for attention as Grocott shuffled away mumbling about diversified applications and quantum variables. “All right, people! The Signatus grid registered four disruptions in the last three hours. We Apparate to the perimeter of each disturbance and follow the locator. Remember, minimum force. Iscariot still has the ghelshield device and we know what kind of damage it can do. Our objective is to recover the hostage and bring Iscariot in. We want him alive. Now is not the time to exact payback for our fallen colleagues. Alpha team with me; bravo team with Tonks. Coordinates are on your Signatuses. We Apparate on three!”

The first two sites were duds—a four- and six-year-old, respectively, experiencing powerful surges of wild magic. The grid registered dozens of such disruptions every day as young wizards and witches experienced their magical growing pains, causing accidents all over Britain. The fallout was minor in most cases, but since many of these incidents were caused by Muggle-born magical children, there were the occasional complications to be dealt with.

Harry sighed and pinched his nose under his glasses as a Muggle Relations Specialist led the six-year-old’s hysterical mother away. An Obliviator squad was on the way to deal with the crowd of neighbours. We don’t have time for this! I don’t need to be here coddling housewives scared witless over a bit of exploding china, and explaining the existence of Magic, when Merlin knows what that bastard could be doing to Draco at this very moment. I need to find hir!

“—ry…Potter!” Hetty handed over a flask of water. “We’ll find hir,” she said, speaking to his apparent worry; she didn’t add that everything would be fine. There was too much of the realist in either of them to take comfort in the platitudes. “The Obliviators are here, so we can go.”

Harry handed back the flagon with a nod of thanks. “On three, then.” He met the eyes of his team and counted off.

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Draco did not move when sie regained consciousness this time. Sie knew every moment’s reprieve gave Harry more time to find hir—and Harry would find hir, of that sie had no doubt; but if it was to be in a way that would not destroy both him and Anna it would have to be soon, as Draco knew hir body couldn’t hold out much longer. Hir shoulder joints were beyond enflamed and there might be lasting damage affecting hir circulation if sie was rescued. Hir lungs ached; sie couldn’t tell if there was a puncture in the soft tissue caused by one of the cracked or broken ribs splintering, but it was getting harder to breathe and the wet sound that accompanied hir efforts was not a good sign. Blood loss and internal bleeding were hir biggest concerns. The tenderness of hir belly indicated that blood was rapidly pooling there from an internal rupture. If help didn’t arrive soon, Draco knew sie would die.

The battered prisoner couldn’t restrain a grimace when the brass butt cap of a flogger prodded hir side, nudging a broken rib. “The demon is awake. Subterfuge is the way of Satan, but hear me devil, I will free this man from your grasp.”

Biting back the retort that sie was triarii, not a man, and even outfitted with “girl bits” sie had bigger balls than the deluded arsehole in front of hir, Draco steeled hirself as best sie could as Iscariot lifted the heavy tool. “Be gone, demon! In the name of Jesus Christ, the redeemer, be driven from this vessel!” Another blow landed and Draco moaned.

“Yes, yes, that’s it!” Iscariot nodded eagerly, the fervent glitter of insanity lighting his eyes. “Fight it, Draco Malfoy! Call out to God and receive His mercy!” The latigo lash ripped down hir torso, leaving lines of fire in its wake. Too tired to hold back, sie moaned again. “Good. That’s very good,” Iscariot praised, striking hir chest and shoulders. The studded tips of the fall landed heavily over a nipple and sie hissed. The breast band provided little in the way of protection. “Come forth, Draco! The demon cannot suppress your will. Your faith can save you. God will give you strength to resist its power!” The blows landed more heavily now as Iscariot poured all his strength into pulling the flogger back and down again and again and again, invoking God’s name and intoning prayers between breaths as Draco cried out brokenly, cuts opening with every pass over hir bleeding body.

Minutes?—hours?—passed and the beating ended. Winded, Iscariot dropped the flogger and with a tenderness completely at odds with the savagery he’d just displayed, he cradled Draco’s face in his sweaty palms, raising hir head to meet his eyes. “Can you hear me, Draco?” he asked gently. “I know it hurts, but it will be over soon. You are so strong to have endured, and now the demon is brought to heel. Only its malevolence could have held your tongue until now. You are here with me now, and I can help you the rest of the way. We can cast Satan’s spawn from you forever. Together. All you must do is believe. Accept God’s love and mercy. Confess your sins and you will be washed clean. Renounce Satan and his ways, repent of your association with Lucifer, the fallen. The Son of God would welcome you to His table, Draco Malfoy. You know this. Do you accept Jesus Christ as your one true lord and saviour?”

Gathering hir resolve, Draco pulled hirself up in the chains, ignoring the screaming agony in hir shoulders from being held high and awkwardly for so long. Iscariot nodded and stroked over hir bloodied face with his heavily-calloused fingers; guarded hope suffused his face and he nodded again. “Yes, that’s right. You accept Christ. Don’t you?” he whispered, so close that his rancid breath left moist, putrid vapour on Draco’s lips.

With waning strength the triarii drew back and spit a bloody wad in his face. “D-do you h-honestly be-believe...for one s-solitary moment that such...drivel would convince me of anything?” sie rasped, voice grated raw from screaming. “Perhaps you are...unfamiliar with the lessons of history?” sie sneered as Iscariot staggered back, wiping his hand across his shocked face. Draco sucked in a burning breath. “Such ‘confessions’ did not save Wizarding folk from misguided...Christian zealots during the Great Persecution. I sin-sincerely doubt one would save me now.” Sie stumbled further in hir speech, the pain rapidly catching up to hir, but sie pushed on.

“K-kill me now or not, but do stop with your tiresome nattering about repentance and redemption. I will not be party to your delusions or justifications.” Draco breathed heavily now; sie hurt—badly—and could no longer draw full breaths, but if sie was to throw Iscariot far enough off balance to earn hirself a reprieve then sie could not stop. Sie had to keep talking—after all, pretentious posturing was a skill sie’d honed. Let it be wielded now to batter hir enemy’s defences. Either the madman would retreat to find another strategy to “save” his captive, or he’d be angered enough to land a killing blow that would end hir torment and perhaps keep Harry from having to retrieve a corpse that was mutilated beyond all recognition. Through a mouth looking like an open wound, through teeth stained red, sie kept talking.

“Come now, Judas...didn’t that deranged bitch you called mother include the witch hunts in your twisted lessons? Hmm...maybe she didn’t. So hard to develop quality...comprehensive curricula these days, you know. Something often has to give. Was it History and Ethics that were sacrificed for Rhetoric and Sado-Masochism in your case? Or did the lessons in history just not take, Judas the Betrayer?

“S-surely you learned your commandments. Thou shall not kill?” sie asked mockingly, forcing air and biting words past the coppery slickness of hir throat. “And yet your namesake did so with a kiss—were you even so gentle with your Anne, or did whips and chains end her, murderer?”

“H-how did you—you cannot know Anne! You cannot speak of her that way! Shut up! Shut up! You’re twisting what happened! It wasn’t like that!” Iscariot cried and he sank to the floor, arms raised as if deflecting a blow.

“I name you Murderer, kin-killer, slayer of innocents! That is the truth! Anne trusted you, loved you, and you killed hir; just as you slaughtered nine other innocent people!”

“No! Anne begged me! She wanted to die! She wanted release—”

“From the torment you inflicted on hir! From the pain you caused hir! Anne was born as sie was meant to be,” the mage panted shallowly, this was it. Hir captor was at his tipping point, sie only had to push a little bit further. “You didn’t understand. You didn’t accept hir. And you killed her in your ignorance. Tell me,” Draco demanded, weakly sneering at the trembling man, hir swollen lips, cracked and bright with blood, twisted, “is that the love of Christ at work? Is torture and murder the way of your loving, accepting God? If that is how you define salvation, I want no part of it.” Though beaten sie was not broken, and with a haughty, superior expression on hir face sie stared the pathetic man down, until with an anguished cry of confused defeat Iscariot scuttled away from the stone room.

Having spent the last of hir surge of strength, Draco slumped in hir chains again, wrenching hir shoulders but too exhausted to do more than grunt softly at the renewed agony in hir strained joints and muscles. Hurry, Harry, sie thought as darkness encroached again. I have bought us only a little more time, and the cost will be dear; he will be truly angry when he returns. Hurry and find me, Harry. I want to go home.

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Triarii-specific Terminology:
Vamar: Parent, usually shortened to vama, or vam
Veru: Triarii spouse


Chapter 16 Review Responses
Thank you, really, so very much for the reviews!

qwerty: The killer is definitely a viper in the nest of the Malfoy companies, but Harry is pretty determined to take him out, though I think the question is what will be unleashed…Thank you!!

poohbear74: Thank you! You’re assuming though that Harry’s gonna catch the bad guy…are you sure? *evil grin*

applesauce_N_soysauce: More on the way, thank you! What more you ask? More revelations, more twist and turns, more angst probably…

Justmine25: You might want to keep the O.O around for a little longer…heheheh…Thank you!!

Akumu_Suta-Raito: I so appreciate that you took the time to review each chapter, thank you!! And you’re right after this Draco will truly deserve lots of TLC; the question is whether or not sie’ll get it. *smirks*

thrnbrooke: Thank you so much!! But hold onto that worry, it’s not over yet!