"Ah, Nicolas, you truly are amusing," Voldemort said, "Of course, I am bound by the unbreakable vow. Do you see me casting the Crucio upon her? Neither am I causing her any harm. On the contrary, I'm such a gentleman that I'm caressing the delicate skin of such a legendary witch."
With a sadistic grin, Voldemort traced his finger along the curve of Penelope's jaw, relishing in the fear that flickered in her eyes. Perenelle tried to pull away, but the chains that bound her to the rocky bed held her firmly in place, leaving her at Voldemort's mercy.
Gentleman. This madman. Who could believe such a blatant lie?
Nicolas mustered every last bit of strength and tried to break free from the rope. But it was in vain.
He shouted at Voldemort, his voice filled with rage and desperation. "Stop this madness! This isn't caressing, this is torture! Perenelle doesn't want this!"
The realization dawned on Nicolas. He and his wife were at the mercy of the dark Lord.
Tears welled in Nicolas's eyes as he looked upon his beloved wife, her eyes filled with fear and despair. "I'm sorry, Perenelle," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."
Perenelle's gaze met his, her eyes pleading for him to save her from this nightmare. But there was nothing Nicolas could do. He was powerless to protect her.
Voldemort's laughter filled the chamber, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Nicolas's spine.
"Such devotion," he taunted, "How touching. But alas, love cannot save you now. Speaking about love, you say this is torture, as she does not want this. Oh, then I just got an idea, which is the perfect solution. What if I give her a love potion?"
Time seemed to stop. What nonsense was he speaking? A love potion.
It wasn't just the violation of Perenelle's will, but the thought of her affections being manipulated by it. Even though a love potion did not create actual love, as true love could not be produced through artificial means, the love potion would still create a feeling of obsession with the person who gave it to them.
Voldemort took out a vial from inside his robe and spoke. "In fact, I do have some Amortentia with me."
At the mention of the Amortentia, both Nicolas and Pernelle felt like it was now impossible to escape the sick manipulation of Voldemort. As Potioneers themselves, both of them recognized the Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in existence.
"No, please," Pernelle begged, her voice choking with fear. This was going far beyond any sane torture.
"Don't do this. I beg of you, Voldemort. Spare me from this fate."
Nicolas's demeanor changed immediately. "Anything but that. Don't give her the Amortentia. I beg of you, Voldemort. Have mercy."
But Voldemort paid their pleas no heed.
With a swift motion, Voldemort uncorked the vial of Amortentia. Perenelle began to tremble with fear, her cries growing more frantic. "No, please, don't." She struggled against the chains violently.
With a cold, cruel smile, he reached out and grabbed hold of Pernelle's face. Perenelle struggled against his forceful grasp, her cries of protest falling on deaf ears, her tears staining her cheeks.
Voldemort raised the vial to Perenelle's lips, and slowly, Voldemort forced Perenelle's mouth open and poured the potion down her throat. Perenelle choked back a sob as the foul liquid burned its way down her throat.
She gagged and sputtered, her body convulsing with revulsion as the vile liquid coursed through her veins. Perenelle's screams filled the chamber, a sound that pierced through the darkness and echoed in Nicolas's ears.
Nicolas could hardly bear to witness the scene unfolding before him as he shut his eyes.
Then Nicolas's mind started to play tricks on him as thoughts about what was going to happen to Perenelle started appearing in his mind. A thought so vile, so utterly disgusting, that he could barely bring himself to acknowledge it.
He found himself imagining Perenelle's newfound obsession with Voldemort. He pictured his wife, once so full of life and love, now reduced to a mere puppet under Voldemort's control.
And then, in the depths of his despair, Nicolas's mind conjured up images that he could never have imagined in his worst nightmares. He saw Perenelle, her body writhing in ecstasy as she begged for Voldemort's attention, her cries of pleasure mingling with the echoes of her moans. He felt sick to his stomach, his mind spinning with the sheer horror of it all. And yet, try as he might, he could not banish the images from his mind.
As Nicolas looked up, he found that his wife, Perenelle, had a confused look on his face.
"Maybe the potion did not work, or maybe Perenelle was able to resist it." With that thought, Nicolas Flammel moved his eyes towards the evil Lord.
Voldemort was looking directly at him with a cruel smile on his face, and then Voldemort burst into laughter.
"Oh, how amusing this all is," Voldemort laughed loudly for a moment before continuing. "To see the look of despair on your faces, it's truly priceless."
"What a fool I made of both of you."
Voldemort mocked, the amusement never leaving his voice. "My dear Nicolas, Perenelle, that was merely a little grape juice. A trick to see your reactions."
Nicolas glanced at Perenelle, seeing her reactions as normal.
Shame burned in Nicolas's chest, hot and painful. Their fear had completely clouded their judgment.
Amortentia, the most powerful love potion, had a distinctive scent, a fragrance unique to each person it affected. The sickly-sweet aroma, a combination of the desired one's most beloved things, would have been unmistakable. There had been no such scent, only the faint tang of grapes.
"Did you really think I am interested in an old woman like yourself?" Voldemort addressed Perenelle.
Perenelle felt a wave of shame crash over her.