FicWad

Chapter Three: Questions

Raven sat on the floor under the window, eyes on the ceiling and the light dancing across it, with her knees pulled up to her chest. She'd stopped trembling and seemed to be under control again, but the more Voldemort watched her, the more he realized that her mind was somewhere else entirely from the room.

"Raven."

She lowered her head, "Yes?"

"About this resistance to magic, when did you first discover it?"

... "I think it was a few months before my mother died," Raven said, looking at the ceiling again. "I'd been climbing this tree in our yard...and I fell. I broke my arm and scraped my legs up a bit. My mother raced out of the house. She was holding her wand. She touched the wand to my arm and nothing happened. I remember her frowning at that. I didn't understand then and I was in too much pain to think straight. She tried again on my arm, then tried the scrapes on my legs. Nothing happened, so she tried a spell on the tear in my skirt. The tear went away, but my arm was still broken and the scratches on my legs were still there."

"What did your mother do about your injuries?"

"Nothing," Raven said, shrugging. "They just went away. The scratches on my legs were gone within the hour, though the arm took all night."

"Your body healed itself then?" Voldemort was smiling slightly, as though he liked her answers.

"Uh huh." Raven blinked very slowly and then brought her head back down. "It still does too. Works even better now."

"Care to show me?" he asked, conjuring a knife.

"Sure." She held out her hand. He was tempted to just slash it himself, but handed her the knife instead. She held the blade over her arm a moment and then quickly cut a thin line from her wrist to her elbow. She winced from the stinging pain, but simply clenched her fist and held out her arm to Voldemort. As he watched, the cut vanished, leaving only a trace of blood on the pale skin.

"Impressive," Voldemort murmured. "You said that the healing works better now? How so?"

"When I was a little girl, it would have taken a few minutes at least for it to heal," she said. "Now, it only takes an instant."

"Interesting... What else do you remember before your time in Azkaban? Tell me what you know about your mother. What did she look like? What was her name?"

Now Raven looked stressed. She hung her head, resting her forehead on her knees. Voldemort said nothing more, wondering at the odd reaction. She lifted her head and spoke softly.

"I remember that we never had visitors. It was only us. We lived in a small cottage surrounded by a garden. Two trees in the front yard, roses on the left side of the house, tulips on the right, and a vegetable garden in the backyard." She was twirling the tip of the knife into the floor, slowing turning the hilt in her fingers. "Mother had been teaching me to read and write. I remember that she had very long hair, its color was light, sometimes it looked light brown, other times dark blonde. Her eyes were hazel; brown and green and gray." She fell silent.

"What was her name?" Voldemort pressed.

Raven's mouth twisted into something similar to a smile, but not quite the same. "Mom."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Raven," he said softly, warningly.

"I don't know her name," Raven snapped. "I was three years old when she died and there was nobody around to say her name. I only called her mom or mother, she called me by my name."

"Which isn't Raven, is it?"

"Of course not," she replied.

Voldemort bit back an impatient sigh. Raven was staring at the opposite wall now. "Then what is your name?"

Raven opened her mouth to speak, leaned forward, and whispered. ... "If I wanted you to know that, I'd have told you back in Azkaban."

In an instant the knife was back in Voldemort's hand. In the next instant, he pinned her hand to the floor with it. Raven let out a short, sharp cry and grabbed the hilt of the knife to pull it out. But Voldemort slapped her free hand away from the knife and knelt before her, eyes burning. Raven looked up at him, crystal eyes wide and staring. The Dark Lord was certain that it was the first time she'd actually looked into anyone's eyes while speaking to them.

"Your name," Voldemort hissed.

Raven swallowed hard. "My name is my own and not important to you."

For a moment, Voldemort was impressed by her persistence. He took the hilt of the knife and twisted it. Raven screamed and fell to her side, twisting futilely. Voldemort felt a cold satisfaction on torturing her without the use of magic. It was actually more gratifying than he'd thought it would be. He smiled darkly and gave the knife another twist. The girl was suddenly stoic, her free hand clenched into a tight fist, her body trembling with the effort to remain still. She bit down on her lower lip until it bled.

"Give me your name," Voldemort demanded softly, preparing to twist the blade again.

"No!" Raven's voice was sharp and screeching. The blood from her lip was running in a thin line down her pale chin and her teeth were stained with it. Voldemort watched her squirm a moment more. Sighing, he pulled the knife out of her hand and sat back in his chair. Raven remained still, breathing heavily, a moment more before slowly sitting up. She wiped the blood from her chin and stared up at Voldemort, a new inquiring look to her eyes.

Voldemort looked right back at her, still smiling. "How is your hand?"

She laughed weakly and held it up. It was covered in blood, but was otherwise fine. Voldemort handed her a handkerchief, but she declined it. In fact, she flinched when he moved towards her. The Dark Lord's smile widened slightly. Much better.

"As you will learn, Raven," he told her, "from my other followers and your own experiences, I will not be trifled with. I will not be toyed with. I will not be refused. Though the pain you just felt was brief, I can and will make it last should you continue to be obstinate. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Raven replied almost silently.

"Yes?"

Raven licked a drop of blood from her lip. "Yes, my lord."

He offered the kerchief again and this time she took it. "Let us continue the questioning then, shall we?" he said as she wiped the blood from her hand.

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort sat back in the chair, very satisfied. "Why did you never try to escape Azkaban before I arrived there?"

"It never occurred to me," Raven said, staring down at her formerly impaled hand, checking to see if she'd missed any blood. "Not until Sirius did it himself, anyhow."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

"I was afraid."

"Afraid?" The Dark Lord repeated, skeptically.

But Raven nodded. "Azkaban was all I knew. I hated it, but it was all I really knew. I was afraid of the world outside. The same world that locked me there in the first place."

"Tell me how you came to be in Azkaban."

"After my mother was murdered, it was a full day before anyone came to our home. I... the murder happened in my mother's bedroom. I was still by her side when these strangers burst in. They took me from the house and left me in this little room for about a day. Then they put me in Azkaban. I can only guess why they came to the conclusion that I had killed my mother. If that's why they put me there at all."

"Hm." Voldemort twirled the knife between his hands. "Are you affected by the Dementors at all?"

Raven paled, quite a feat for someone already too pale, "Yes."

"What happened the night your mother was murdered, Raven?" Voldemort asked.

She shook her head slightly. "I don't remember much."

"You were three years old when they put you in Azkaban, Raven." He reminded her. "A three year old child who's mother was murdered is locked in a place where she must face her worst memories. There couldn't be much else the Dementors forced you to recall."

Raven blinked, surprised, and then smiled a little. "Touché/," was all she said in reply. "You're right, of course," she said after a minute of thought. "That was practically the only thing that's gone through my mind over the years. I remember that night /quite well for all that I was practically a toddler. Thanks to the Dementors."

"Well?"

But Raven didn't say anything more. She was staring off into space again, but her face was expressionless and her eyes dull. "That night... I was... I..." Voldemort's eyes narrowed in curiosity. She was having very real trouble. He could see her throat struggling to get the words out that her ears didn't want to hear.

"Shall I bring in a Dementor to help you?"

Raven's mouth snapped shut, her lips one thin line across her face. She shook her head violently from side to side, eyes wide and empty.

"Then tell me what happened."

"I can't."

Voldemort stood up, knife in hand. "I told you that I will not be refused, Raven," he warned her, taking a step towards her.

"I really can't!" she told him her voice strained. "Please don't make me."

Voldemort was actually inclined to believe her. He scowled in irritation and frustration, thrusting the knife into the arm of his chair before sitting back down. "I will hear your story in full eventually. You had best accept that fact and work on facing your memories of that night. Are we clear?"

Raven nodded quickly, her eyes still wide. Very slowly, she blinked and her strained posture relaxed. Voldemort watched her every move carefully, as though examining each and every reaction. When she sat back and stared at the ceiling once more, he continued.

"You're resistant to wizard magic and your body heals itself," he said, "but what actual powers do you possess?"

"I'm not really sure what all I can do," Raven said. "Never really thought to use my power or see what I could do when I was in Azkaban, but there were a few things that I did often enough."

"Such as?"

"I can manipulate shadows to a small extent," she replied. "I can't make shadows out of nothing or anything like that, but if I'm in shadows, I can kind of...twist them around me so I look like a shadow too. I did that whenever someone came to Azkaban."

"Interesting," Voldemort said. "What else?"

"I can fix things," she told him. "Like the vases and the table in the room this morning. I can make things disappear, but I don't know where they go or how to bring them back. I've never tried creating anything from thin air."

"Try now."

Raven frowned and lowered her head. "What do you want?"

Voldemort pulled the knife from the chair and tossed it to the floor in front of Raven. "Make a duplicate of that," he told her. "It should be easier to do with a reference point."

"I suppose," Raven said, reaching out to touch the hilt of the knife. She closed her eyes and moved her hand over the floor next the knife. Then she opened her eyes and stared intently at the space beneath her open palm. A few beads of sweat appeared on her pale forehead, but after a moment, a knife dropped from the air under her hand and fell to the floor. She picked it up and offered it to the Dark Lord. Voldemort took it, smiling as he examined it. It was a perfect reproduction of the knife he had conjured.

"Very good, little bird," he said softly. Her eyes met his when he used that name again, but her gaze held only confusion. He held out his hand for the other knife as well. She offered it to him, though she backed away once the knife left her hand. "That will do for now, Raven," he told her, gesturing towards the door.

She didn't need a second invitation. She practically leapt to her feet and out the door. Once the door was closed tight behind her, she leaned against the opposite wall, staring intently at her hand, and the blood still staining the lines of her palm.