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UnBroken	By : OddDoll Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 6174 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Unbroken
By Odd Doll
Chapter 1
"So this is Felicity Manor, house of horror and den of iniquity. It doesn't look very Gothic from the outside."
A silver Mercedes rolled up the circular drive with the soft crunch of wheels on gravel. From the passenger seat, Phoebe Baher studied the staid edifice of gray stone. Multi-paned windows lay flush with the flat Tudor façade, every one of them curtained against the sunlight, like a dowdy old woman buried deep in her bonnet. Graceless square chimneys jutted into the sky over a dull gray roof. The only relief to the eye was the canopy of deciduous trees that cradled the house on three sides and a lush informal garden inside the circle of the drive.
"Wait until you see the inside," said her companion, George Fullerton, Esq., solicitor to the manor's late owner.
He parked the Mercedes near the door. Phoebe let herself out. It had rained the previous evening; the air smelled sweet. Narcissus bloomed in terracotta planters near the door, their heady scent mingling with the odors of the woods and the fresh tilled earth in the nearby garden.
"It's an ugly house," she said as George walked up beside her, "but at least it has nice grounds."
"You should see the maze. It must have taken a hundred years to grow it." He held a large key ring in the flat of his hand, poking at the keys with a manicured fingertip. "Might as well just ring the bell."
She followed him to the door to wait behind him. The scent of narcissus was cloying here, sickly. It made her eyes water. A chill breeze touched the nape of her neck like a ghostly breath. She looked up at the gray stone looming above them and shivered.
"I'm not sure I can be of any help to you, George."
"Just talk to them. You are the only person I know in the exotic sex business." He winked. "And I hear you're first rate, too."
"Did your acquaintances in the regular sex business tell you that?" She smirked.
"We have a client in common." He didn't look up from the jumble of keys in his hand. "But I can't tell you who."
"Of course not."
"Just give me the details so I can evaluate the odds of a suit." After ringing the bell once again, he selected a key from the odd assortment on the ring.
"Oh, I can tell you that without even stepping foot in the house," she told him as he inserted the key into the lock. "You've got a hundred million pound estate and two angry, frightened sex slaves. I'd say the odds are about one hundred percent."
"I'm so lucky you were in town to give me that bit of wisdom." He looked over his shoulder to give her a comical frown, but turned his attention back to the door when the key stuck in the lock. Still frowning, he yanked it out and he held up the ring, choosing another and inserting it.
The door opened, letting out a gush of chill, stale air.
"Hello," George called out as he pushed the door open. They entered and stood in the marble-tiled entryway. "Hello!"
Spacious parlors opened to her left and right. In the thin slivers of light that pierced the gloom from cracks in the curtains, it appeared that the décor in both rooms was in pale shades of blue and green, with brushed silk upholstery and faded oriental carpets that gave the impression of understated elegance.
"The interior is a lot nicer than the outside, but what's that smell?" A faint whiff of something sour stung at her nose.
"It smells like something's spoiled in the kitchen. I think that they must have all left."
Ahead lay a hallway and a staircase that led to the upper floors. George walked to the base of the stairs and looked up. "They might have moved into rooms upstairs and not heard the bell. But even so, the housekeeper said she would stay on to keep the place in order."
George started down the hall toward the back of the house and Phoebe followed, heels clicking on the hardwood. She would be interviewing a potential employee later in the day, and had dressed accordingly: red, three-inch stiletto heels; skirt and jacket in supple black leather; a blouse of crimson silk. Her long blond hair was pulled back and wound into a neat chignon. Diamonds glittered at her ears. Today, Phoebe had dressed to intimidate.
"When was that last time you were here?"
"Day before yesterday. I had other business to take care of, or I would have been back sooner."
At the door to a gleaming modern kitchen they stopped and peeked in. The smell was stronger there, but the kitchen was so clean the chrome on the fixtures shone in the light from the windows.
"Well, whatever that smell is, it's not coming from here," George said as he stepped into the room.
"You know what it reminds me of? When my dad was stationed in Germany the housing was overrun with rats, and the army put out poison. They died in the walls of the houses, and it smelled just like this. It never really went away, either. Every time it rained you could smell it again."
"That sounds awful. I don't know how your mum could stand it."
"She couldn't. We got private housing."
"It's stronger here." George turned full circle to survey the room.
Prickles ran up Phoebe's arms. Without realizing it, she crossed her arms over her waist, an old comforting gesture from her childhood. Her gaze followed George's around the room. It looked normal; it felt off.
Following her nose, Phoebe drifted toward a door far down the opposite wall. When her hand touched the worn brass knob, she yanked it back. The house was chilly, but the handle was warm, almost hot. The sun had been shining on it for hours, she realized. With a soft grunt of disgust and a shake of the head to clear the house's dark mood, she grabbed the knob firmly and turned it. The sour smell strengthened.
"I think it's coming from here. What's behind that door?"
"I don't know. I didn't get to see the whole place last time."
Beyond the door was a dark hallway. They crossed this to a white door, paneled like the other doors in the house, but with a sturdy deadbolt fastened above the antique knob. George went through his key ring again.
The door cracked open with the soft screech of vinyl scraping against vinyl and a cloud of foul air. Phoebe gagged, pressing her palm over her mouth.
"George..."
"Christ! It smells like something died down there."
"Something big. I don't like this."
They look at each other and then stared down the dark stairwell. Not only was this door thicker than those in the rest of the house, but the walls of the stairwell were lined with padding covered in black vinyl. In the dim light, a plain brown door waited at the bottom of the stairs, behind which, she knew, was the source of the smell.
"We should probably see what it is," George said, reluctance in every syllable. He reached overhead for a chain and turned on a bare bulb. Trying to control her knees, Phoebe followed him down the stairs. Her eyes watered from the stench, and she had to take small shallow breaths through her mouth to keep from gagging. At the bottom, George didn't hesitate, opening the next door as soon as he touched it.
The bottom door led to a small corridor with a brick floor. George fumbled for a light switch, finding one on the wall inside the stairwell. Naked bulbs sprang to life, illuminating a row of iron doors with small barred windows at eye level. Each door had heavy bars to secure it, but most stood open.
"It's a real fucking dungeon," Phoebe whispered.
To the right, another iron door stood open. George looked inside while Phoebe peered over his shoulder. Hell on earth. The room was large and crowded with the paraphernalia of restraint and torture. Wooden shelves lined one wall, loaded with whips and straps, leather masks, chains and manacles, a box full of ball gags, and much more. It stretched on and on, holding every type of sadistic device Phoebe had ever seen or heard of. In the center of the room were stocks, metal frames, a whipping post, a device she recognized that delivered small electric shocks. Oddly, in one corner stood a small boxing ring. Her eyes lit upon a table covered with knives, and she closed them, swallowing hard, not just against the nausea but the painful lump in her throat. She had to brace herself against the door frame with a shaking hand before she could look again. It wasn't as if she was unfamiliar with this sort of thing, but she knew, with a deep certainty, that she had never seen them used in the way they had been used here.
Dark stains covered the brick floor.
On the far wall, hanging from manacled hands, was the body of a man. Dried, crusted blood coated his head, face, and chest. Bruises covered every limb, and from the way some of them hung, it was clear they were broken.
"Oh man, oh man," George moaned.
"It looks like he was beaten to death." She looked away. "Should we make sure he's dead?"
"I suppose, but..." He swallowed audibly and his face turned ashen.
"I think it's fairly certain, but I guess the police will want to know. I'll do it. The smell isn't bothering me as much as you." She lied. She didn't know if she could make herself look at that bloody, broken thing on the wall once again. "Call the police while you're up there."
"No. We know he's dead, and it's obviously a crime scene."
"Okay," she said with relief. "I think I need to get out of here."
They headed toward the stairs. Phoebe was just at the bottom step when she heard a scraping sound from the cells behind her. She paused and looked over her shoulder.
"Did you hear that?"
She heard the scraping sound again and turned back.
"Phoebe, that's a crime scene. Just get out."
She ignored him and walked to the nearest cell to peek in. The bare bulbs that hung over the corridor barely illuminated the interior, and she had to shade her eyes from the glare to make out a bare, five-by-five brick chamber. The next cell proved to be equally barren.
"Phoebe, come on.”
The next two cells were as open and empty as the first two, but the last one was barred. She put her face to the small opening, but her head blocked the light and she could see only blackness within. A faint moan told her everything she needed to know.
"George, there's someone in here." She lifted the bar that secured the door. It swung up on a hinge to rest parallel to the door frame, but fell into place again when she let go. She tried again, her hands shaking, and found a wire loop that slid over the end of the bar, securing it against the wall. George walked up behind her as she swung the door outward.
"Oh, my God."
A naked man lay across the entrance to the cell. Phoebe knelt down to place a tentative hand on his upper arm and found that his flesh was cold and hung limp on his bones. Evidence of a severe beating some time in the last few days lay in the swelling and bruises along his jaw and the blood crusted in his nostrils. His lips were dry, with dried blood in the tiny cracks where they had split. Where his skin wasn't bruised or bloody, it was gray and dull.
He turned his head to look up at her through lids nearly swollen shut. "Water," he whispered. A second later his head slumped back to the floor, his eyes closed.
"George, get an ambulance here, quick. And bring some water." George sprinted for the stairs, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. "And find some clean towels! And a blanket!"
She settled down on her heels, feeling useless. "Can you tell me your name?"
His dark eyes rolled, flickered in her direction, but he didn't answer. His expression was blank, almost apathetic. To Phoebe, it seemed as if he had done what he needed to survive and now surrendered to those who came to care for him. Behind the swelling and bruises, and the broken nose, it was hard to tell what he really looked like. His hair was long and black, with a few silver hairs to give the only indication of his age. All of his ribs stood in relief against the emaciated torso, his hip bones jutting out. His hair was dirty, and he lay in his own filth. Old scars and newer ones criss-crossed their way across his back, hips, and thighs like the random markings of a small, cruel child.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" Her voice caught in her throat. He shook his head a fraction, but she needed to comfort him in some way, if only for her own sake, so she placed a hand on his arm and left it there. His eyes moved to her face before he closed them.
Phoebe looked up. What a grim place to die. The brick walls seeped moisture, leaving tiny black trails, as if the house itself had bled. From overhead, bare bulbs cast a harsh light that etched every detail in high relief, but before they had arrived it would have been as dark as Hell. She wondered how long he had lain here, alone in the dark.
I will not cry.
She stilled herself inside.
Emotions are useless in a time of crisis.
After an eternity during which Phoebe fought to keep calm, George's steps thudded down the stairs.
"The police and ambulance are on their way." He dropped blankets and towels beside her. "I don't know how much of this he should drink." He handed her a large glass of water.
"I don't know either, but I'm sure he needs it. Let's get a blanket around him first thing." She unfolded the blanket and laid it across the man's body. "George, get down here and help me get this wrapped around him."
The man moaned as they lifted his emaciated body to push the blanket beneath him.
"He's really tall, I think, but he hardly weighs anything," George said.
"Did you notice his hips and ribs?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to lift your shoulders up a bit, so you can drink. George, would you take one of these towels and dampen it with really warm water?"
She crossed over the man's body while George went to the stairs. When she slipped her arm under his shoulders and lifted his upper body, he cried out in pain. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, as if he had just finished a marathon for which he was unprepared to run.
"Okay. Plan B." She dipped a corner of one of the towels into the water and held it to his lips. "You must have something broken in there."
He sucked on the towel. She continued to soak the towel and bring it to his lips for him to suck on, as helpless as a baby.
I will not cry. My good judgment is more important than my emotions. I can cry later when no one needs me to be strong.
The inner monologue she used to face her day-to-day challenges was barely up to the task. Tears came, but she managed to avoid breaking down.
When George returned, he knelt down and put his arm around her. "Do you want me to take over?" His voice was gentle in her ear.
"How could someone do this to another human being?" She took a deep breath. No matter what happened, she could not lose control.
Phoebe drew her arm across her wet cheeks. "I can handle this. You need to wait upstairs to let them in." The man looked at her now, his eyes showing the first sign of emotion, but it was one she could not read.
George placed a soft kiss on her temple. "You are the strongest person I know. I know you can handle this, but that doesn't mean you have to."
"George, I do have to."
"No, you don't."
"Yes," she replied firmly, "I do. Don't ask why. Just trust me on this. I do."
He was quiet for a second, but said, "Okay," before he gave her a squeeze and went back upstairs.
God, how I hate this. Pure sadism. No controls, no concerns for the pleasures or needs of the one subjugated. They would have used him until he died. They almost did. Phoebe didn't cause his suffering, but she knew she must take responsibility for it.
She wiped the crusted blood from his face with the warm, damp towel, but he winced as the cloth brushed against the swollen area around his left eye.
"I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave this to the professionals?"
He looked at her for a moment and then nodded, the barest shift of his head. In the distance, sirens wailed.
"Is there anybody I can contact for you?" He shook his head. "Don't you have anybody? Family or friends?" He shook his head again.
A perfect victim. He would disappear and no one would ever miss him. From upstairs, voices grew louder as they approached the cellar stairs.
"I promise you," she said as she placed her hand on his head and stroked his hair, "you will not have to go through this alone. I will take care of you."
The rescue workers came in with their stretcher and supplies, crowding her into the back of the cell. They questioned her about the state he was in when she found him and the care she had given, while giving him a quick, efficient exam. Her fears for him eased as she watched them work with surprising tenderness.
"Where are you taking him?"
"Saint George's."
"Private?"
"Tell them to keep him there. I'm paying the bill, and I'll be along when I can to take care of the paperwork."
Both of them glanced up at this, but when she said nothing they returned their attention to their patient. Using the blanket as a sling, they lifted him to the stretcher, but he still gasped and moaned as his body rocked with the movement, his mouth stretched into a grimace of pain. When they lowered him down, his left arm, which had been clutched over his side, fell away from his body revealing a dark, ugly tattoo of a skull and snakes on the inside of his forearm. A scar lay over it, as if someone had taken a knife and gouged out a letter T.
It was mark that Phoebe recognized.
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UnBroken