The Price of Control

Damian stood in the dimly lit dungeon of Black Manor, his heart racing with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. After weeks of research and preparation, he was finally ready to practice Legilimency. Unlike Occlumency, which he could hone alone, Legilimency required hands-on experience—an understanding of how to delve into another's mind and extract information. 

He turned to Kreacher, who awaited his orders. "Kreacher, it's time to put our plan into action. I need you to bring me some Muggle prisoners—criminals, the worst of the worst."

Kreacher nodded vigorously, the glint in his eyes showing his eagerness to serve. "Kreacher will find the worst Muggles, Master. Kreacher knows where to go."

Damian stood over Kreacher, who was hunched at his feet, listening intently. The dungeon's dim light flickered across the stone walls as Damian began explaining the next phase of his plan.

"Kreacher, listen carefully," Damian started, his voice low but firm. "This mission requires absolute stealth. No mistakes."

Kreacher nodded, his large, bat-like ears twitching as he absorbed every word.

"You need to cover your presence at all times," Damian continued, pacing slowly as he spoke. "Use the Disillusionment Charm to blend into the surroundings. It's crucial that you remain unseen from the moment you arrive at the prison."

Damian conjured a piece of parchment and quickly began sketching rough drawings of Muggle surveillance cameras, their angles, and how they were mounted. He handed the parchment to Kreacher, pointing at the crude illustrations. "Look for these. They're called cameras, Muggle devices that can watch and record everything in their range."

Kreacher squinted at the drawings, then nodded in understanding. "Kreacher sees, Master."

"Good," Damian said, satisfied. "You must avoid being spotted by these. They'll capture your image and alert the guards if you're not careful. When you locate one, use 'Stupefy' to temporarily disable it. Magic would cause its circuits to be disrupted. Cover the glass lens with a black cloth, just to be safe. Don't destroy them—they mustn't suspect foul play too early."

Kreacher's eyes gleamed with determination. "Kreacher will disable them, Master. No one will see Kreacher."

Damian crouched down, ensuring Kreacher was fully focused. "Once you've bypassed the cameras, you find the targets. They should be in cells or restrained. Stun them with 'Stupefy'—quick, precise, and clean. Make sure they don't have a chance to scream or alert anyone nearby."

Kreacher nodded vigorously. "Kreacher will make it quick, Master."

"After they're stunned, bind them tightly with ropes," Damian continued, miming the act of tying someone up with his hands. "Then Apparate them here, one by one. Do it quietly. Make sure no one sees you coming or going."

Damian's expression darkened, and his voice dropped a notch. "Remember, Kreacher, you cannot be seen. No guards, no other prisoners, not even a passing fly. One slip-up, and they'll raise the alarm. If anything goes wrong, they'll know someone's been there."

Kreacher bowed deeply, his wrinkled face showing fierce loyalty. "Kreacher understands, Master. No one will see. Kreacher will not fail."

Damian stood, satisfied with the elf's dedication. "Good. This needs to be perfect. The success of this mission depends on your ability to remain undetected. Do it right, and no one will ever know these Muggles are missing until it's far too late."

With a final nod, Kreacher Apparated out, leaving Damian standing in the dim dungeon, already anticipating the house-elf's return.

Later that evening, Kreacher returned, dragging three unconscious Muggle prisoners behind him. They were bound tightly with ropes, their faces bruised and battered. "Kreacher has brought the prisoners, Master. They are tied and helpless, just as the master asked."

Damian stood in the dimly lit dungeon, a cold, calculated expression on his face as he watched the Muggle prisoners squirm, their terror palpable. The sound of Kreacher's raspy breathing echoed in the background as the house-elf knelt by Damian's side, his bulging eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"Master is pleased?" Kreacher asked, his voice low and reverent.

Damian nodded, his gaze never leaving the prisoners. "Very pleased, Kreacher. You've done well."

The stocky man with tattoos was the first to fully regain consciousness, his head jerking up as his eyes darted around the unfamiliar, foreboding surroundings. "What the hell is going on?" he growled, trying to tug against the ropes that held him. Panic quickly crept into his voice. "Where are we? Who the hell are you?"

Damian stepped forward, his boots tapping ominously on the cold stone floor. "Quiet," he commanded, his voice sharp. The man froze at the sound, his bravado faltering as the weight of the situation began to sink in. Damian stood over him, casting a shadow that seemed to smother the hope of escape.

"You're in my domain now," Damian said, his tone low but menacing. "And you're not going anywhere."

A second prisoner, a wiry man with wild, fearful eyes, strained against his bindings. "You think you can just keep us here?" he spat, desperation in his voice. "We'll get out! The police—they'll come for us!"

Damian laughed, a slow, cruel sound that reverberated off the dungeon walls. "The police?" He smirked. "They won't even know you're gone. And even if they did, you'd be beyond saving by then. You see, I don't live by their rules. I'm bound by a higher power."

The stocky man continued to struggle, but Damian could see the fear starting to seep into his eyes. He loved that moment—the instant when a man realized he was utterly powerless.

"You won't be needing your memories where you're going," Damian said darkly, and with a flick of his wand, he cast Legilimency.

The stocky man's eyes widened in shock as Damian plunged into his mind. The images came in a rush—memories of brutality, of innocent lives shattered by his hands. Damian saw flashes of violence: blood, broken bones, the twisted pleasure the man took in hurting others. He recoiled for a moment, his stomach turning at the vivid images of murder and assault, but he steeled himself and pressed on.

The man screamed—a raw, guttural sound that filled the dungeon. His mind buckled under the force of Damian's intrusion, his worst memories dragged to the surface. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the snot dripping from his nose. The smell of fear was thick in the air.

"Disgusting," Damian muttered, breaking the connection. He wiped his hand on his robes, as if to rid himself of the filth he had seen. "To think I had even considered mercy."

The man was sobbing uncontrollably, his body shaking in his bindings. Damian sneered at him before turning his cold gaze to the other two prisoners, both of whom were now staring at him in wide-eyed horror. One of them whimpered softly, his earlier bravado completely shattered.

"You're scum," Damian continued, his voice like ice. "You prey on the weak. You destroy lives. And now you'll pay."

The wiry man opened his mouth to speak, but Damian silenced him with a quick Silencio charm. The man's lips moved, but no sound escaped. Damian smirked at the helpless terror in his eyes before returning his attention to the stocky prisoner.

"We're just getting started," he said with cold amusement. He dove back into the man's mind, probing deeper this time, dragging out the most painful and horrifying memories he could find. Each scene was worse than the last—faces of victims, screams of agony, all laid bare for Damian to see.