What if Peter hadn't been the secret-keeper, but still a traitor?

[alwaysimpure]

It wasn't often that Sirius considered, even for a moment, being grateful to his mother. She had made his life misery, she had turned his brother from him, she had messed him up the way only family could. But at least she had also prepared him for pain, definitely for more pain than any growing child should have to experience and through enough that he had been able to withstand more torture than most minds could take since he'd been captured.

A trap, a simple one, but he had trusted Peter and that had made this so easy. Of course he'd trusted Peter. Not because Peter was brave or overly loyal, but because he just didn't seem capable of deceit. Too much the coward, too stupid. he had underestimated him and that's how he ended up here. Some dungeon, who knew where, chained to the wall, wandless and in pain.

Deatheaters weren't gentle captors, especially not to bloodtraitors. He hadn't eaten or drunk, hell, hadn't slept or pissed since this started, not that he had any way of telling how much time had passed. But as long as there was so much importance on getting the truth from him, at least Sirius knew that they were still safe and that gave him strength like nothing else.

There was no one with him at the moment, a short but welcome reprieve. Sirius had closed his eyes, tried to use wandless magic to find some spell to break the chains, hopeless as that was. He'd have been better of focusing his strength on a healing spell, but that had never been his style. Too much of a fighter.

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[raggedywizard]

It had taken everything he had, for Remus to track Sirius down. In the end, it had been his curse that ended up being his aid, reluctant though he was to admit it. Just hours until night and he had caught a whiff, the faintest whiff but there, of a scent he would never forget, engrained in his mind with the monster's pack instincts. Just another Wizard passing by, and he had nearly disregarded it entirely. But there it was. And Padfoot - it had been so long since Remus had seen him - but the smell that clung to the wizard's robes was tainted with copper and iron and his hand gripped tighter on his wand, beneath his robe.

Tailing a paranoid wizard was never easy, but a stupefy and an obliviate later and Remus had slipped through the doors, his heart high in his chest with fear and thrill in equal parts. The Marauder spirit ingrained in him like a lifelong instinct.

He could smell Sirius everywhere. In the hall, on the stairs, with the sickening thick and heavy scent of blood and sweat and- oh. there was blood on the floor and on instruments he passed. There was no thought from the logical marauder to how reckless or dangerous this was. how easy it would be to get caught. Only one thing mattered, and that was his pa- was Sirius. Was finding him.

The war was a dangerous time for anyone, but Sirius was a Black on the wrong side of it, and worse, well known to be James Potter's best friend. Danger and trouble were tied around his neck like a noose.

The moment Remus caught sight of him, he had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting. There was blood, and black and purple, tinged with sickly yellow-green everywhere.

Remus knew where he was. What the dangers were. That it was unlikely Sirius was here without a guard. So he wasted no time at all and lunged forward, wand already flicking at the restraints to not unlock them, no, banish them, far away, even as he strode the last few steps to be certain he could catch Sirius from his fall.

A growl rumbled low in his throat and hot, salty tears stung at his eyes. How had they caught him? Why hadn't he been found before this? Why had no one told Remus he was missing? Sirius was too heavy for him to carry, but that was easy enough to fix. Unfortunately he couldn't apparate them out of here. The other wizards might follow him, and then they would both be captive.

What he would not give for James' cloak right now.

"Dear Merlin," He whispered "What did they do to you."

[snivelingprince]

Severus was on guard duty. Normally it wasn't something he enjoyed, but ever since he'd graduated he'd been put on potion duty for days at a time. He never thought he'd feel so bitter about the mere sight of a cauldron. Watching over some captive for a while would be a welcome break. Mostly...he was glad he was still green enough that he wasn't called to fight, or interrogate (unless they wanted veritaserum).

The face that greeted him when he reached his post wasn't at all the one he'd expected, and he paled, blinking at Black. "...You-" he started dumbly.

[the_corsair]

As far as Death Eater's went, John was a fairly simple Wizard. He did not want fame and glory, didn't actually care all that much about the mudbloods or the muggles. Just about the only thing he did care about was the ability to give the ministry a giant fuck you and do as he pleased with his magic. Why should they cower and hide like cockroaches from light, when they had magic at their disposal? If the argument was to do with numbers, he was fairly certain the fear they could invoke, and the aid of their magic, was more than enough to compensate.

What he did dislike, however, were holier than thou blood traitors who thought that they could actually measure up against The Dark Lord and play the roll of the white knight. So when given the chance to go wild with his dark desires, magical and sharp alike, he agreed to the task with a chipper grin that flashed white teeth and cruel intentions.

"Not falling asleep on me, are you, Black?" His wand flicked idly but he didn't cast another spell just yet, dragging the door shut again behind him.

[sadistic]

Bellatrix was there, hooded and masked, during the earliest commotion of her cousin's capture. He was first interrogated by a group of which she was part, and that was a coarse and brutal introduction that set the tone for everything later. It's time now for a visit of another kind. He might hear before seeing that he's no longer alone. Her wand-sheath was made with other garments in mind, and with excess weaponry, it sits too heavily over what she's wearing. Moving toward him, her steps and the rustle of fabric are accompanied by a sound of metal clinking against metal. Her wand itself is drawn from the very start.

She's arriving directly from a lavish social affair, the kind of thing she attends as upkeep on her public life. He can't think it's wholly for his benefit that she's wearing an evening gown. It's an elegant backless thing, with fitted sleeves by necessity, in an unforgiving shape that restricts her movement more than she'd like — but then, this won't require agility, will it? She'll admit that the contrast with his own condition is purposeful. She means for him to glimpse something of her life, of how it's proceeding in accordance with the choices she's made. That she faces him unmasked is a testament to her sense of security. It speaks to her confidence that he will never escape to name his captors.

There is, of course, the necessity of extracting information from Sirius, very specific information wanted as soon as possible. She lives each moment with fevered impatience to fulfill commands, but she could never be impatient with this, with him. She credits her cousin with resilience — no, stubbornness — and thus expects to prise no secrets from him on this occasion. This is for her personal satisfaction. A social visit, to her mind, and on those grounds some formality should be observed.

She flicks her wand, one sharp movement, roughly pulling his restraints forward and up, to their limits. He must be half accustomed to being puppeted around, but she knows how to keep the strain on his joints, not in the chains. She wants him hanging to attention, rather than swinging there limply. His weight's been on his wrists for too long, which alone must hurt, but not quite as she'd like. It isn't enough to rely on prolonged discomfort; pain should be distinct. It should rise and fall like breath.

"Stand when a woman enters the room."

He seems to take a certain pride in his atrocious manners. Among his humiliations will be a forced compliance with the standards of etiquette his mother might expect of him, were she here. Satisfied with his mimicry of posture, Bellatrix performs a straight-backed curtsy.

"Sirius Black," she intones with mock civility, resenting that he retains the family name whilst doing it such injustice, but using it all the same. "Shall we reacquaint ourselves?"