He couldn't quite pinpoint where it started, or even what it was, just yet. All Randall knew was that he'd closed his eyes in the room Rhys had given him in the cabin, with Holden curled up against his side, and suddenly he was standing in a dimly lit hallway. Doors lined the walls, each one different from the rest of them; there were old-looking wooden doors with brass handles and hinges, freshly painted ones with silver doorknobs, even ones that reminded the Gryffindor of some sort of science-fiction movie. Thick carpet covered the floor, muffling the sound of the boy's footsteps as he walked slowly down the hallway, looking at the doors as he passed by them. He bit his lip, counting each door he walked by: 10, 20... he lost count after 40. Yet the hallway stretched on, no two doors the same, without a bend or turn in sight.
The first thing he heard was a quiet sobbing. He turned to look at the place he'd entered, only to recognize it as his bedroom at home. Curled on the bed was a young boy, head buried in his hands as his shoulders shook. Randall frowned, something nagging him about this scene - something familiar. Then he heard the faint voices.
"I'm telling you! The teacher called today, telling some cockamamie story about how Randall broke a desk from across the room; took all the nuts and bolts out of it and let it collapse! We need to get him some help, James, honestly." That was his mother's voice, and suddenly he remembered what this was.
"Alexandra, we can't just ship him off to your sister. Look, we'll talk later. I have a late shift at the station tonight; we can talk when I get back."
Randall stumbled out of the room before the scene could progress any further. He didn't want to hear the rest of it, didn't want to see his mother come into his room and explain that he might be going away for a couple weeks to figure out what was going on.
"Try another one," another voice told him. He turned slowly, unwilling to figure out who was tormenting him now. Randall's knees went weak at the sight of Zagan, dressed immaculately save for the bloody knife still lodged in his chest. The Gryffindor shook his head, but the Slytherin just shrugged almost imperceptibly. "Then you won't get out of here. You'll be stuck here until you keep trying." The older, taller boy pulled the knife from his chest and advanced on the terrified sixth year, who whirled and scrabbled for the next door.
This time it was screaming that greeted him, a horrifically familiar screaming. He was back in that empty corridor in the castle, this time forced to watch as Calithra stood over him. He watched as the other Randall screamed and writhed and jerked about on the floor. And as he watched, he could feel the familiar muscle ache and sore throat make a reappearance. Then the screaming fell silent, and he listened as the other him forced out a few words.
"Not telling you anything..."
"Crucio!"
Suddenly pain struck Randall, and even though it was a mere fraction of what Calithra was putting him through in front of him, it still forced him to double over and gasp for air. He reached behind him for the doorknob, twisting it open and falling through the door to get away from the pain and the scene being replayed.
"Isn't that pathetic?" yet another voice asked. Randall closed his eyes, feeling a few tears leak out from under his eyelids at the fading pain, before sucking in a deep breath and opening them again. Standing in front of him was... Randall. The other Randall was dressed the exact same way - a simple grey tshirt and jeans - but he was different. For a moment, Randall couldn't tell what set them apart, until he met the other Gryffindor's eyes and noticed they were fully black, irises, even through to the whites. The other boy smirked then, tilting his chin up in a quick nod. "I've heard that door's the way out," he commented, and even his voice was different. He drawled, speaking as if he had all the time in the world and everyone falling over themselves to do his bidding. Randall opened his mouth, intending to ask who this boy was, but once again he didn't have a voice. The other boy just shook his head, smirking as he stepped closer to Randall. "You know who I am. But if you don't get your ass in the next door, I swear I will take you apart piece by piece and laugh at your screams." Randall swallowed and ran for the next door, inexplicably terrified of this part of himself.
This room was different. It was still a memory, but instead of being forced to watch the scene play itself out, this time he was part of it. And it was the worst memory he'd ever had.
"Now, Mr. Ryan - I'm just going to call you Randall from here on out..." He was back in the Ministry, metal restraints holding him in the chair across from the man he could only refer to as his torturer. Randall shook his head, already feeling his heart start racing and tears start pouring down his cheeks. "No..." he whispered, his voice trailing off into a low moan of terror as the man began carving into his arms again and again and again, the word quickly turning into the only thing he could say. When the torture progressed, however, he could only scream for help as he yanked at his restraints again. And it didn't stop where it had the first time. No, it kept going, bouncing back and forth between the cuts in his arms to the agony of being crucioed, and he could feel his mind start to break down and fracture.
And then it was over.
His eyes snapped open on a gasp, cheeks wet with tears as his chest heaved underneath the bandages still wrapped around him. A quiet sob slipped from his lips, before he choked it back; Holden was still sleeping against his side, and he didn't want to wake the other boy. Holden had had enough to worry about when it came to Randall recently. He deserved his sleep.
Randall, on the other hand, found himself staying awake until the sun rose, finally falling asleep from pure exhaustion, head tucked against his boyfriends as the tears dried on his cheeks.
