A/N: STOP!!!! Have you read Chapter 36: Purpose yet? If not, you better! Or else this chapter will make absolutely no sense to you. Click back and read Chapter 36. I promise you, it fits with this one nicely.
Again, thank you, Tome Raider!
Standard disclaimers apply.
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Chapter Thirty-seventh: Captivity
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Severus Snape had only ever respected two people in his entire life, both of which were dead, both because of him. And as fate would have it, both empowered the object of his hate with their unconditional love.
Lily Evans-Potter, wife to his bitterest rival, mother to the insufferable so-called Boy Who Lived, was a woman Snape would have followed to the ends of the earth, if she didn't happen to be on the unfortunate end of a fate-altering prophecy.
The moment Snape learned that Lily's life had been endangered by the very prophecy Snape had so eagerly conveyed to his master, all thoughts of glory, power, and revenge fizzled like the last drops of a potion at the bottom of the cauldron. All he could think was that everything he had done, all the things he wanted to do, and everything he wanted to gain, would be nothing if Lily were to die in his pursuit of it.
In hindsight, everything he had done had been for Lily. He had sought to be better, for Lily. And while at first it seemed as simple as getting straight-Os on his N.E.W.T.S., seeing her fall in love with that horrible James Potter pushed him over some kind of edge. So the promises of the Dark Lord seemed enticing at the beginning, as easy as pumpkin pie: An errand here, a delivery there… he supported the Dark Lord's cause, all the while thinking that he would only go so far; that he would only do so much. He knew from the beginning that Lily wouldn't approve of his methods, but he figured she would forgive him up to a certain point, and he was willing to push that envelope just so it could get him what he needed to be better than James Potter.
Of course it occurred to him later on that his tasks had gotten darker, more dastardly, but at the same time he realized this, he was already in too deep, irredeemably embroiled, and that he couldn't possibly get away now. Lily was never going to have him for what he'd become, but he could have glory, power, and revenge; consolation for his lost love-until he found out that his pursuit of it all would be the death of her.
And so she perished, and James became nothing but a bad memory, but the child that lived, loathsomely adored, who looked almost exactly like his unbearably perfect father, fit so easily into the mold of Snape's bitterness and regret. It was so easy for him to hate Harry Potter.
Then there was Albus Dumbledore, powerful, wise, respected. Snape had gone to him in his darkest hour, and the old wizard had taken him, offered him sanctuary, and gave him a second chance. Albus had a heart as tender as Lily's, but his power surpassed even that of the Dark Lord's. At the beginning, Snape's respect for Albus was almost grudging, but through the years, seeing that the old man believed in him, the way Lily had believed in him; it wore away at his old prejudices, and Snape understood that Albus's power was not like that of the Dark Lord's. Albus's power came from somewhere else, and it was the kind that Lily would have approved of.
When Harry Potter arrived at Hogwarts, the old man believed in him, confident that the Boy Who Lived could, and would, follow in his footsteps. Snape couldn't conceive of it. Snape had called Albus a fool; trusting everything to a boy who has proven nothing and shown no aptitude for saving the known Free World. Snape had, until that moment, respected every decision Albus made. The thought that Dumbledore would trust this child, so obviously wanting in everything that made Dumbledore and Voldemort great in their respective abilities, grated at Snape's senses.
It was out of respect for Dumbledore that Snape taught him at all and protected Harry Potter from mortal peril. The boy was a horrible ingrate, and he was everything his father would have aspired him to be. And one would think seeing Lily's eyes on Harry's face would warm Snape to him, but it had done the exact opposite. Those eyes were a reminder of how Snape had failed her, and how-as punishment, he had to serve this slip of an incompetent boy.
Snape had resisted believing in Harry for a long time, and even after Snape-destined to betray, had murdered Albus Dumbledore, he was bitterest in the thought that he had to destroy the one man he had ever felt true loyalty for, because Albus's death paved the way for Harry to take up the Order of the Phoenix while it rose from the ashes.
Harry bloody Potter.
Snape still wasn't sure if he believed the hype, but he had pushed his proverbial cart off the top of the hill, and he was powerless to stop its decent. He had begun the series of events that would lead to Harry and Voldemort's confrontation, now all he could do was assist Harry all he can, because Albus could not-absolutely should not-die in vain.
I've put up with too much shite for it all to just crash and burn at that blithering Boy Who Lived's wake, he thought sourly. I have come this far. I will not let it all go to waste.
He spied Peter Pettigrew emerging from the basement doors and he wondered momentarily if he should risk it. His time was quickly coming to an end. He could feel it. The Dark Lord was hardly telling him anything anymore, and Lucius, Bellatrix, and Dolohov had barely bothered to acknowledge his presence when he dropped by the study to give them a courtesy visit. They had been stiff and guarded, and their body language suggested his impending total ostracism. They didn't want to get too close, as if what he had was contagious.
Snape could only turn up his nose at such treatment. They were all smiles and platitudes when Voldemort was relying on him for the "ultimate" potion, but now that his use had waned, so did their so-called good graces. Not that Snape was hurt by any of it. The truth was, the arse-kissing had gotten terribly old, and Snape was only too glad he didn't have to put up with the shite any longer, but he had to admit it was convenient being secure in the fact that they weren't going to kill him yet.
Right now he didn't have that security. It was making him a tad constipated.
Peter walked past Snape's hiding place, and with hardly any effort, Snape grabbed the back of Peter's collar, pressed a pin-head sized tracing charm on the rough fabric of his undershirt, and dragged him into the shadows.
Peter gave a ratty little squeak, caught absolutely off guard. His pudgy nose wiggled in agitation and his beady eyes shot to Snape's face, like a mouse, caught by the tail in the jaws of a Kneazle.
Snape stuffed him in a corner and stared soullessly into Peter's terrified eyes. How many times had Peter hidden behind James and Sirius, laughing as his two "popular" friends humiliated Snape in the hallways of Hogwarts? How many times did Snape think, You, Peter, are nothing without James, Sirius, and even Remus?
It would be so easy to crush the pathetic rat beneath his boot, but that would serve nothing, because even Voldemort didn't think much of rodent-faced Peter. Peter was Voldemort's gopher and nothing more. Peter would wipe Voldemort's arse if Voldemort asked him to.
"Hello, Pettigrew," said Snape in a silky tone. "Sprung any mouse traps lately?"
Peter's beady eyes narrowed to slits, and a soft whistling hiss escaped the space between his two protruding teeth. "What do you want, Severus?"
At least the little snitch doesn't beat around the bush. "I was told by Bellatrix that it is to you the keeping of the Know It All Mudblood was given. I want to know where the Mudblood is being held captive."
Peter scowled, his un-manicured fingers twitching with annoyance. "And why would you want to know that?"
Snape stepped threateningly towards him, and Peter gave another squeak, shrinking further into the corner. "That is my business, which means I need not explain anything to you."
Peter glared, a dangerous glimmer igniting his gaze. "And I needn't tell you anything. Do you think I don't know that you grow more unimportant by the second? It won't be long now before your use diminishes completely, and the Master will have the killing of you."
Snape sneered. "Right, because unlike me, you are indispensable and there is no one else like you."
The full-meaning of Snape's sarcasm seemed to hit Peter hard for a moment, and his eyes widened briefly in horror, but then they regained their vicious resolve, and they grew fiercer.
"The difference between you and me, Severus, is that the Master knows you're too smart for your own good. Me… I may be stupid and useless, but I'd lick his boots at a snap of his fingers. I'd do his bidding whether he promised me remuneration or not. I cut off my own hand to bring him back to life… I will be serving in the Master's house long after your ashes are thrown out with the rest of the sad, Mudblood-loving, Muggle-born sods. So tell me again why I should give you answers to the questions you so desperately seek?"
Snape really loathed Peter Pettigrew. "Have you never known anything but cowardice, rodent? Always hiding behind someone bigger? In the end, are you going to betray the Dark Lord, too? The way you betrayed James and Sirius? Traitors are destined to do their deeds, Pettigrew. Just between you and me-from one traitor to another… who do you think will save you when your betrayal becomes known?"
Peter shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "I will not betray the Master…"
Snape sneered. Pathetic. So easy to break. It would be child's play to barrel into Peter's mind to find the answers he sought, but he didn't. Not yet.
At this time, Peter wouldn't bother the Dark Lord with stories of a Potion Master wanting to know where Hermione was. Voldemort knew about Snape's dislike of the Mudblood, and it was natural, to Voldemort's mind, that Snape might want to torment the captured Know It All while she waited for her hero to save her. It was common for Death Eaters to seek an audience with their Order of the Phoenix captives off-the-record, after all, but it was one thing to ask the keeper where the captive was, another to use something as extreme as Legilimens to find answers in the keeper's mind. Peter would howl about it to his precious Master, and Voldemort wouldn't take kindly to it at all. The Dark Lord was suspicious enough of Snape as it was, and to that end, Snape felt there was no need to quicken his death sentence.
"Is Potter down there yet?" Snape asked, changing the subject as he maneuvered his hands into his sleeve.
Peter frowned. "No one is allowed to see him alone. You can't break the lock-"
Snape did not let him finish. He brought his hand to Peter's throat, squeezing as he held the funny little man against the wall.
Peter tried to gasp for air, but Snape's iron grip restricted him.
"My advise to you, Pettigrew,"-said Snape in an even tone, his eyebrow arched-"is to know who your betters are, and not second-guess them. Do you understand?"
Peter had no choice but to nod feebly as he choked and turned blue in the face.
Snape let him go roughly. "Take me to Potter."
"I'd rather no-"
"Take me to Potter, Wormtail, or I'll tell the Dark Lord that you owe Potter a life-debt. Imagine what your Master will do to you if he finds that out."
Peter looked positively horrified at that one. He scrambled to grab his keys, and muttering and squeaking under his breath, he hastened to lead the way back to the dungeons. He made quick time of unlocking the doors and leading Snape through it.
Snape followed wordlessly, keeping his smirk to himself. They descended the steps of the dungeon and came to the bottom of it where he spied Harry Potter leaning back against the wall, breathing heavily while looking exhausted.
"What's wrong with him?" Snape asked.
Harry's eyes popped open at the sound of his voice, and his mother's gaze shifted between Snape and Peter.
"Detoxification spell," Peter said. "Bellatrix dosed him with it quite heavily."
Snape's eyebrow arched. He had expected that. He just hoped Harry had expected it as well. He had to find out. "Well, Potter, I hope you liked your lunch well enough to savor the taste of it again."
Harry didn't reply for several seconds, until finally, he said. "Nasty, that spell. Nothing stayed down. Absolutely nothing…"
Snape paused and something akin to horror began to blossom in his mind. Was Harry trying to tell him…? "You should know by now that we're a rather thorough lot. We couldn't risk any contaminations in our ingredients, especially not for an ingredient as rare as you."
"Well, I didn't know," said Harry harshly. "It caught me completely off guard. Totally unprepared."
Snape had to stifle his growing anger at how utterly stupid Harry had been. Judging from Harry's response, Snape had to assume that either Harry hadn't and couldn't take the Revivisco potion, or he had taken the Revivisco but had expelled it when Bellatrix detoxified him.
It was all very infuriating, as Snape had given Harry the potion ahead of time specifically because Snape might not have the opportunity to give Harry the potion while Harry was in captivity. His foresight on that matter had proven correct, but Harry's foresight-or lack thereof, had miserably failed them.
There was no choice. He needed to speak to Harry, but he couldn't quite do it with Peter breathing down his neck. Snape discreetly took hold of his wand and sent one of the torches into a fiery blaze.
Peter gave a yell of surprise, and Snape, true to form, frowned with impeccable calmness and said, "Put out the fire, you fool."
Perhaps a bit panicked, especially when the flames began to lick at the dungeon moss, Peter scrambled to cast extinguishing spells, which of course didn't quite work.
Snape took advantage of the distraction. He cast a Legilimens on Harry, and Harry resisted for only a moment before hastily letting him in.
Do you have the potion on you? Snape asked.
No… do you have any left?
Snape resisted the urge to berate Harry for his supreme idiocy. It took him five months to brew the amount of potion he gave Harry, and after that, he had to maintain its viscosity for several weeks, which was about as long as it took for Harry to figure out the clues and meeting up with Snape in Spinner's End. Snape had been certain three hefty vials of it was enough to cover all possible contingencies. Obviously, he had overestimated the Bumbling Boy Who Lived.
I do not, Snape replied, stamping down the panic he himself was feeling. Where have you kept the vials I gave you?
Peter screamed for help, the smoke in the cavern thickening. Snape told him to be quiet and just do his job.
Where, Potter?
There is no more. I sent one vial for the Ministry and Horace Slughorn to share for examination. Ron gave me the vial I let him keep…
And the third one?
I gave it to Hermione… she might have already lost it…
Snape snapped out of Harry's mind. There was no time to waste. But Harry tugged him back frantically, demanding Snape to tell him if he knew where Hermione was.
Not yet! thought Snape impatiently. But I will know in a bit, I promise you. Now let me do what I have to!
He slammed his mental doors on Harry and walked off, flicking his wand to extinguish the torch fire and clear the smoke. Snape took a few moments to scold Peter for his incompetence and blow off some of his pent-up annoyance while he was at it, and marched up the steps in a hurry.
Peter scrambled after him, tripping in Snape's wake.
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Viktor jerked from his seat behind his desk, the charmed map of Great Britain, Ireland, and the North Sea glowing briefly as activity began somewhere in Little Hangleton, London. The blinking image of a rat stood unmoving for several moments before it waned and almost immediately reappeared far into the North Sea, northeast of the coast of Scotland.
The rat moved slowly after that, millimeter by millimeter, but Viktor didn't need to wait and see where the rat was headed. Viktor already knew.
He sent out a messenger spell to Severus Snape and sent Stian, his eagle, to Ronald Weasley.
As the spell and the eagle disappeared from view, Viktor pulled his drawer desk open for his supply of pilfered Polyjuice potions. Further into the desk he brought out a packet of Death Eater hair. He took a tiny pinch of the Death Eater tissue and dripped it into the potion. The sizzle of it smelled awful, but it was proof positive that the potion would work. Hastily, he drank the potion down, the pain of his transformation drowning out his anxiety of having to go to Azkaban.
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The ferryboat to Azkaban docked in a tiny, unmapped islet several kilometers off the Scottish coastline. It stayed well beyond any magical wards that might have been set to keep Azkaban isolated, imprisoning, and impenetrable. The islet was, among many, a Wizarding Apparition point, and the two ferrymen posted at the port to wait for Azkaban-bound travelers were not the most social of men.
At present, there was only one ferry and one ferryman, the other boat having been used by one "rat-faced chap."
The ferryman grumbled as Viktor, Polyjuiced in his Death Eater form, alighted his craft.
"All the ferrying I've done lately," he mumbled. "Enou' to throw m' back for mo's. Must be one hell of a party in Azkaban. Whole of England be going there… vampire prisoners and such…"
Viktor, doing what he did best, nodded and said nothing.
The ferryman seemed more inclined to respect his silence. Pushing the boat off the port, the deep, choppy waters rocked the boat for several minutes before they slipped into a thick white mist. The boat calmed, rolling along easily as the ferry's wood creaked and groaned, as if pushing through the mist was an effort.
The ride was a long one, and when Viktor looked at his Dark Mark, it seemed to shine brighter the further they floated into the fog.
After what seemed like an eternity, the mist lifted, and Viktor, for the first time, saw the terror that was Azkaban. The boat began to rock violently once more as the current came to life. Ocean waves crashed against the craggy rock that was Azkaban Island.
Jagged spires of rock rose from the sodden coastline, as if the dark, crenellated monolith of despair, pain, and forgotten convicts sat on a crown of angry thorns. Dementors circled the massive and crooked tower topping the nightmare structure. The castle's walls were infested with moss, salt scum, and thick decay, even as the stone beneath the sea-grime lay hard and impenetrable.
Viktor felt the icy coldness licking his skin and his hairs stood on end while dreary thoughts knocked on his mind's door.
The ferryman began to sing a sprightly song about prairies and elves, and listening to the words, Viktor found that he could keep those dreary thoughts out.
They reached the island's docking station, and Viktor hopped on the wooden planks.
"Sing a happy song," said the ferryman. "Helps to keep you from their notice."
Viktor nodded again, and with that, the ferryman began to row away, his song on his lips.
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Viktor unrolled his hand-held map, just before he stepped into the fortress that was Azkaban prison. Taking his wand, he touched its tip to the map's North Sea and the image instantly enlarged. He spied the blinking rat and enlarged the map even further from there.
The map of Azkaban was a strange one. The layout of the structure on the map looked nothing like the exterior shape of the castle, but it wasn't surprising, really. The Krums of old were known to have laid their castles out in a similar fashion, meant primarily to confuse enemies who managed to lay siege.
Viktor spied Peter in the southeast quadrant of the castle. He wondered if Snape had already gotten the messenger spell he sent out. It felt like hours ago, but that was only because his trip across the sea had felt impossibly long.
He walked through the massive doors of Azkaban and immediately he felt-not the presence, but-the influence of the Dark Lord. His Dark Mark flared for a heartbeat and it seemed to make his presence known to everyone there. Death Eaters looked up briefly from their work before going back to their respective tasks.
Azkaban was alive with activity, and Viktor had a feeling it wasn't always this way. Hooded Wizards and Witches flitted about from one archway to another, some of them holding maps, others just walking briskly from point A to B. The witch posted at the booking counter waved him over, her expression one of business and authority.
"State your business," said the woman.
"I was sent by Bellatrix Lestrange to assist Peter Pettigrew with the prisoner."
"Which prisoner?"
"The prisoner."
The witch's eyebrow arched before she reached behind the counter and produced a parchment. "Your authorization papers came in the floo just a few minutes ago, Mr…?"
"Croxton. Robert Croxton."
The witched approved what was, no doubt, a forged document. She stamped the parchment and made a quick copy of it, giving him the original document. "Southeast wing, lowest level. The dungeon keeper will see you to her cell. You were also sent this." The witch handed him a sealed envelope.
Viktor nodded, not bothering to show his surprise of the note, and hurried along to get to the dungeons. He wasn't very sure how to get to the southeast wing, mostly relying on his sense of direction. As he wove deeper into the fortress, the activity died down and he found himself mostly alone as he walked the dark and deserted hallways.
When he was sure no one would see him, he fished the envelope from his coat and broke the seal. The blank parchment bled with words the moment he unfolded the paper.
~~
Ask her where she kept the potion. Boy needs it badly. Distract Wormtail by telling him he must floo me.
~S.S.
~~
Viktor had no idea what it meant, but of course he knew it was important. He remembered the exact words on the note before he incinerated it with a wave of his wand. He proceeded to find his destination.
It took him a while, but one or two quick glances on his map helped him manage, and he soon found himself standing before an Imperius-ed dungeon keeper.
Viktor showed the stamped parchment and the dungeon keeper gave it a cursory glance before opening the dungeon doors to walk them both through it.
He was led down several winding staircases, the cries of miserable prisoners growing weaker as they deepened their descent. The smell of decay became stronger at each downward step, and Viktor felt that the cold creeping into his skin was not from Dementors. The atmosphere pressing on them in the bowels of the southeast dungeon was more depressing, and more soulless than anything a Dementor could manage. This was where prisoners were brought when they were sentenced to obliteration from the memories of everyone who might have known them.
From the darkness and hopelessness of its depths floated an eerie hum and the dim flicker of torchlight. The stench of death was thick enough to make Viktor want to gag, but he held it in as he walked further into the chamber, leaving the dungeon keeper at the archway.
Viktor spied the rat-faced man who was called Wormtail. He bustled around an open steel casket held upright by a thick iron rack. The rack had wheels, levers, chains, and knobs, implying that the contraption, with the coffin, could be moved and rolled around, and the coffin could be propped up, as well as laid flat and suspended on its back.
Wormtail was speaking into the coffin in a singsong tone, about how they had James's son, and that it wouldn't be long now before his Master finally triumphed over war and death.
Viktor made a sound and Wormtail looked up at him, startled.
"Hullo," cried Wormtail in an oddly cheerful tone.
Viktor held out his authorization letter from behind the contraption. The creatures and monsters carved into the coffin's exterior shifted slowly in their ironclad sleep.
Wormtail took it, read it and arched an eyebrow as he handed the letter back. "I suppose I could use some company. This one right here's bloody boring. Wouldn't say a thing." He looked up into the coffin again. "Sulking is a bad habit, young lady." He giggled.
Viktor swallowed the lump in his throat. There was something inherently sickening about Wormtail. "Snape wants you to floo him."
Wormtail frowned at this. "Did he say what for?"
Viktor shook his head.
Wormtail looked impossibly annoyed but did nothing for several moments.
"Now," Viktor added.
The rat-faced man cursed and finally began to head for the exit, muttering something about self-important oily-gits.
Viktor watched him leave, the dungeon keeper following him up the stairs. When the sound of ascending footsteps had faded, Viktor hastened to see to Hermione.
He stopped cold at the sight of her.
She was tucked securely in the coffin, unable to move. There was a thick steel clamp, possibly silver-alloy, wrapped around her neck, wrists, thighs, and ankles, possibly tightly enough to blister her where the steel ended and her skin began.
Chains were wrapped around her midsection, securing her even more firmly. Perhaps it might not have been so bad if that were all that held her in place. But right through the clamps, probably just where major arteries were expected to be, spikes had been driven through the brace.
Viktor could see the blood oozing down her fingers and legs. Dried blood had pooled at her feet. Her smeared and soiled face looked pale as death, her eyes half-lidded with weakness. Her lips were completely gone of color. Her hair was matted with blood, unwashed perhaps since she and her Shadow Kin were attacked en route from Herdfordshire. They hadn't changed her clothes, either.
They had stuffed her into the casket with her ruined leathers. Her jacket, blouse and jean trousers were filled with bullet holes, torn in places and stained, even sticky, with blood.
"Her-my-own…" he choked, blinking back tears as he sought to undo the clamps. His fingers scrambled about helplessly, trying to find the right knob; the correct lever. Several minutes into the fruitless task, he slammed his palm against the rack in frustration, finding no way to undo any of the locks. "Sheebanyak!"
"Your language is atrocious, Viktor," she said, softly but with her usual vampiric attitude. "What would your children say?"
Her chastisement brought Viktor unspeakable comfort, even as he stared up at her ghastly appearance.
"I cannot remove the locks," he said sullenly, blinking back the intensity of his emotions. "I cannot set you free."
"It's charmed," she said. "Only a Death Eater can undo it by speaking the password."
Viktor pulled up his sleeve to remind her. "If you know what the password is, tell me."
A weak smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Even if I knew, I don't know if I'd tell you. If you release me… I'll kill you. I'll drink you dry."
Viktor didn't know what to do. "You will not. I know you will not."
She was silent for a moment. "Do they really have Harry?"
Viktor wanted to insist his point, but decided it was useless for the meantime. "Da."
She was silent again. It did not seem like the news sat any better for her than her present state of captivity.
For a moment, Viktor wondered if she was going to say anything else when he remembered Snape's note.
"Snape is asking where you kept the potion," said Viktor all of a sudden. "He says Harry needs it badly."
Hermione's eyes widened momentarily and her lips pursed. Viktor could make out some form of struggle, from the expression on her face. Finally, she spoke. "My left boot. There is a secret pocket on the side. I don't know if the vial is still whole."
Gingerly, Viktor felt around the leather of her shoes. He had to rip through her trouser to get to it, but he found the pocket, undid the zipper and fished out what looked like a handkerchief. The handkerchief was immaculately white, Hermione's initials on the hem of it. Inside the handkerchief was the vial.
"How will you give it-" Hermione's question was cut off at the sound of faint humming from beyond the stairs.
Viktor wrapped the vial carefully in the handkerchief and tucked it into his coat.
Moments later, Peter reappeared with the dungeon keeper in tow. At their feet slithered a great big snake, circling between Peter's legs, much to his annoyance. It appeared that Peter would like nothing more than to step on the snake's neck, but he didn't.
Viktor had seen the snake before, shadowing Voldemort's many minions. It was said that Nagini was Voldemort's eyes. Perhaps it was. The Dark Lord was, after all, known to speak the snakes' language.
Nagini circled Hermione's casket once, tasting the air around her, before slithering away, retreating back up the stairs, as if her rounds were complete for the meantime.
Whatever Snape had told Peter seemed inconsequential, because Peter did not bother to talk about it. He merely went back to blabbering nonsense at Hermione, giggling gleefully every time he spoke of Voldemort's victory.
Viktor had to keep his gorge from rising. Hermione retreated back into silence.
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Ron was not in a good place. He was seated at Harry's desk in the Ministry, biting his nails, and waiting for answers he wasn't sure were forthcoming. He had cursed Harry, Viktor, and Snape by turns, thinking alongside his ire that if he had just been firmer-more assertive-with the two former, the latter wouldn't have all of them by the balls.
In the last hour, Ron had also grown to question his own judgment of the entire thing. Maybe he shouldn't have trusted Viktor with such a dangerous assignment. Perhaps he shouldn't have let Harry go alone. Mayhaps Snape wasn't going to help them after all.
I'M GOING TO LOSE THEM BOTH, he thought frantically of Harry and Hermione. They're both going to die, and it's going to be all my fault. OH MERLIN! PLEASE DON'T LET THEM DIE!
At several intervals, Ron had stood, paced, sat back down and clutched miserably at the hair on his head. The Aurors sitting and waiting nearby were already giving him nervous looks as they clutched their wands with whitened knuckles.
The wait was driving Ron insane, and if in the next few minutes, he received no word at all, he feared he was going to go out there and start flushing Death Eaters out, just so he could start doing something instead of just sitting on his arse.
"Ron, 'ou must seet down. 'Ou are making me nervous."
Ron sighed, staring at Gabrielle Delacour. Her golden hair looked lovely even under the mundane lights of the Ministry office, her beautiful eyes like a shining beacon of hope. He began to wonder if all of those of her ilk-angelic and divinely gorgeous-were all named the same…
Lord, she's a sight to see…
But she was an object of pure adoration. Cold and delicate porcelain, precious, but inhuman. The sting of her break-up had waned in the face of his greater concerns, and while he was the one who suggested to Fleur that Gabrielle be kept at the Ministry, where she could be protected by the likes of Shacklebolt, Remus, and a whole department of Aurors, he looked at her now and all he could think about was that he should've done the same for Ginny, who had insisted on being assigned to the Hogwarts unit.
"I'm sorry," he said gently. "But I can't. I'm too worried. I'm too anxious."
"I am, too. We are 'orried for the same people, no? Your fameely iz my fameely, yes? But I believe in zem. Zey will get through. Zey are Weasleys." She grinned broadly.
Ron gave her a small smile. Her naiveté actually soothed some of his anxieties away and he remembered why he had been so taken by Gabrielle Delacour. She was the personification of innocence and wide-eyed wonder. She was hardly touched by the ravages of war, and cynicism was an alien thing to her. She was his escape, but-as he once admitted-that was unfair to her. And perhaps that was a little unfair to him, too.
He spied Luna and George talking a few tables away in hushed tones and immediately looked away.
It was then that a slightly thick parchment carried atop a purple paper airplane, straight from the Ministry Owlery, came zipping into his line of vision.
Ron's heart thumped most eagerly with restless anticipation as he snatched the parchment from its carrier. When he opened the letter, he found himself staring at a charmed map, a small rat-like dot beeping in the middle of the North Sea.
"I have to go," said Ron hurriedly, getting up.
"Ron? What eez--?"
Ron turned to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You keep close to Remus and Shacklebolt, you understand? You keep close to them and they'll protect you. Promise me?"
Swallowing, she nodded.
He smiled, kissed her forehead and hurried to Shacklebolt's office where Remus and a few other unit captains assigned in the Ministry had converged.
The word had gone out earlier that Azkaban had been captured, Beauxbaton and Hogwarts showed signs of falling under silent siege, and while St. Mungo's and the Ministry appeared safe, the units stood in their respective positions, expecting the worse.
Ron did not bother to make any polite interjections as he burst through Shacklebolt's door. "Hermione's in Azkaban. My source has gone there to confirm this information. I want to be reassigned to one of the Azkaban units."
He said this all in a rush, hoping, perhaps, to bustle everyone into giving him what he wanted.
No one was fooled.
"So she might not be in Azkaban?" Shacklebolt asked.
"I want to be there if she is. The place is crawling with Dementors and that means there are going to be Patronuses everywhere. I have to be there for her."
It wasn't the soundest of reasons, Ron thought on hindsight, but perhaps it was enough that he wanted the reassignment so badly that he would come up with lame excuses for it.
Remus gave a nod, sending out a messenger spell to Tonks, captain of the Azkaban unit. "Go. And perhaps Solomon would appreciate it if you took him with you."
"He will," said Ron. "Thank you, Remus."
"Merlin speed."
And with that, Ron left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ron found Solomon amongst his kind at the upper levels of the Ministry. Solomon didn't look fully recovered. He was still burnt in places and walked with a slight limp, but he had been determined to fight just like everyone else, and he insisted on being assigned.
"Even like this, I'm twice as strong as the strongest and healthiest human you have in this entire building," Solomon had said, and it was true. No one could really argue with that.
Solomon, while they stood ready in their respective defensive positions, was currently listening to one other vamp who was explaining the angles of the Ministry hallways, how it could be used to their advantage in an attack.
Solomon caught Ron's gaze and Ron waved to him, gesturing that he was coming over. Ron was just about to reach him when an explosion sent Ron into a panicked halt.
It was Solomon who grabbed Ron and threw him to the floor. Spells flew everywhere at the same moment vampires and werewolves barreled through the Ministry's orderly halls.
Ron whipped out his wand even as he slid across the marble, throwing a powerful blasting hex at the werewolf looming above him.
The werewolf whimpered as he was thrown off.
Ron scrambled to his feet with Solomon grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.
They both ducked behind some filing cabinets as chaos and mayhem exploded all around them. The bloody clash of vampires and werewolves broke out through wizard fire. Enchanted candles overhead turned and spilled, raining wax and flames. The air was filled with flying parchment and thickening smoke.
"Hermione's in Azkaban!" Ron yelled into Solomon's ear through the din. "I'm heading there right now! You coming?"
For a moment, Solomon stared at him as if he had gone mad. Hell had just broken loose around them, yet here was Ron, telling him, casual-like, that he was going to Azkaban like he had decided he was going to the mall. Ron's question of, "You coming?" sounded no less odd.
But after a few seconds consideration, Solomon found himself replying just as casually with a, "Sure. Let's go!"
It was most assuredly easier said than done. The vampires and werewolves had been situated at the front lines, owing to the fact that they weren't easy to kill, but it also meant Ron and Solomon were in the thick of the battle. Their progress to the nearest exit was slowed by countless confrontations, most of which they avoided, some of which they couldn't.
Ron figured that if they wanted to get out of the building, they had to use the emergency exit at the back. It didn't assure their safety, but the emergency escape was charmed to change exit-locations every few minutes. They had a chance of getting out without further interference from Death Eaters.
They rushed through the Ministry, dodging spells, werewolves, and vampires as they went, until finally they reached the service rooms. They sprinted through the storage areas and found the exit. The flashing red sign that said, "USE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY AND IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO GET AWAY!" was quite the beacon. Pushing through the doors, they found themselves exiting into a bathroom stall of some public toilet. It was a tight fit, but they stumbled through without slipping into the toilet bowl.
Ron kicked the stall door open and he spilled out, followed by Solomon. The scandalized looks they received from other bathroom goers were the least of Ron's worries, and even the fact that they were in the women's loo hardly bothered him.
Rushing out of the bathrooms, Ron realized they were at King's Cross. There were Muggles everywhere, rushing to and fro. They seemed agitated, and worried. Many of them looked lost and panicked. And when the Muggles weren't trying to get somewhere, they were clumped around the station television sets. The soundless screens scrolled words as the reporter mouthed them.
Ron read "bombs," "riots," and "death toll."
"It's bleeding into their world," Solomon said from behind him.
Ron nodded and hurried on. They had to get to Azkaban. There was no telling what was happening over there, and the sooner they reached Hermione, the safer she would be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter stopped humming as he hissed in pain. He rolled back his sleeve and checked his Dark Mark before looking up at Hermione, then at Viktor.
"It's time. The Master summons us." Peter shimmied to the back of the contraption. "Undo the locks on the wheels. Some help will be by, shortly, but I suppose we can roll her to the prison lift together. It'll take some doing, but it's best not to waste any time. We still have to get her to up to the tower so we can Portkey her. It's the only place on this rock where the warden could disable the Portkey wards."
Viktor had little choice but to comply.
"Will I see Harry now?" Hermione asked.
Peter chuckled. "Ah, so you do speak."
"Will I see Harry now?" she repeated.
Peter's eyebrow arched. "That is the plan, yes. He said he wouldn't cooperate until he sees you alive. We intend to give him what he wants."
"And then you'll kill me?"
For a moment, Peter didn't reply then he said, "Well, I won't kill you, that's for certain."
Viktor's hand instinctively went to his wand, but he caught Hermione's gaze, and her eyes were piercing, warning him to hold still. Her eyes dropped swiftly, darting to the space beside her.
Peter rounded the corner to the back wheels and Viktor discreetly went to the front. As he bent over the fore-wheels, he heard whispered words in Bulgarian.
"The potion."
Viktor looked up at her questioningly.
"Later," she breathed. "When I tell you, give me the potion to drink. It's a long shot, but it is the only chance we have."
He wasn't exactly certain why she was asking him to do that, but given the circumstances, he was willing to do what he was told.
"What was that?" asked Peter.
"Prisoner is babbling," said Viktor hastily. "Nonsense."
Peter laughed. "She always had a tendency to speak out of turn. Her friend Ron Weasley used to hate it like anything. He would tell me she had a big mouth, and that her stupid, ugly pet was a menace."
Hermione's cheek twitched, and she looked terribly annoyed by that. Viktor hoped that by the time Hermione saw Ron again, she'd have cooled down from her ire.
Two Death Eaters, both of them twice the size of Peter, came through the cavern entrance. With the wheels unlocked, they rolled Hermione to the lift. The lift was a large platform that could accommodate them all, and as the lift ascended, Viktor kept his hold on the vial in his coat. He watched Hermione carefully for her signal.
It was a rather long ride, but they reached the tower at last. They rolled her out of the lift and into the open air. Viktor could see Dementors flying around the fortress in a wide perimeter. The wind was bitterly cold, and he leaned in closer to Hermione, or else he wouldn't be able to hear her above the wind.
Another Death Eater met them, and Viktor recognized him immediately as Bellatrix's husband, Rodolphus. There was a cage, large enough to fit Hermione's casket-rack and five able-bodied men. They pushed her into the cage, and as everyone scrambled to get in after her, Viktor heard her whispering, "Now!"
He was swift, with clever hands. He was a professional Quidditch Seeker after all, and he'd caught many a snitch fooling his opponents with common Muggle Magician's tricks. With a sleight of hand and skillfully applied misdirection, he knocked the vial's contents into her mouth just as the Portkey was activated to bring them to the Riddle House.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was Lucius and Bellatrix who came to fetch him, with Snape trailing close behind.
Harry dared not give Snape a glance that looked nothing less than loathing, and he dared not use Legilimens either.
"The Dark Lord summons you, Potter," Bellatrix said. "It's time you paid your respects."
"I'm fresh out of Knuts. D'you've change for a Sickle?"
"Impudent-"
"Now Bella," said Lucius smoothly. "There's absolutely no need to get aggravated. Potter was just joking, weren't you, boy?" He made a smooth gesture with his hand, and several robed Death Eaters emerged from behind them, accosting Harry and dragging him to his feet by his arms.
"I've actually lost my sense of humor this last hour or so," Harry said through grit teeth.
"Potter has always had a problem with authority," sneered Snape. "Always thought himself above the rules."
Harry glared at all three of them, and even his anger at Snape was real. What was the oily git prattling about? He was in no mood to take Snape's contempt, whether or not Snape was pretending for his benefit, because while Harry felt he still had a chance at defeating Voldemort without compromising his soul, he wasn't exactly in the best of dispositions to take Snape's verbal abuse, affected or not.
He was pushed up the same flight of stairs, and as he emerged from the dungeons, the faint draft wafting through the hallways was surprisingly refreshing.
They took a relatively long time to get to their destination, and it took long enough for Harry to brace himself for the worse.
They finally came upon large double doors, the grandeur of the room's exterior suggesting that they were entering some kind of entertainment hall, like a ballroom, or a theater. It was Snape who pushed the doors open, and Harry saw the sprawling ballroom, its carpets and candle-filled chandeliers worthy of royalty.
Typical, thought Harry, stifling a snort. Voldemort always thought himself more important than he actually is.
He was nudged to continue walking, and he complied. The rich carpet muffled their steps, and when finally, the carpet ended and marble dance floor began, Harry was finally able to get a closer look at He Who Was Called the Dark Lord.
He didn't look that much different from when Harry last saw him in the Department of Mysteries.
Voldemort's skeletal frame had not gained girth, neither had his unnaturally ashen skin blushed with the slightest hint of color, but he seemed taller, and his snake-like face seemed more reptilian than ever. The ruby-gleam of his eyes were filled with malevolence, even as Voldemort smiled through the cage of his spider-like fingers.
"Been quite a while, hasn't it, Harry?" Voldemort asked in a deceptively charming tone. He rose from his throne-like seat, his dark robes luxuriant in its elegance, his pale, hairless face striking against the deep colors of his cowl. He pushed the cowl back, his bald head gleaming against the candlelight.
To one side of his chair stood Janus, clad in his slick clothing, his sword on his back and another at his hip, on the other, Greyback, his shredded clothing and jointed paws a reminder of his ferocity. Two creatures, both children of darkness, one beautiful, the other beastly.
Harry wondered if Voldemort found Janus's immortality fascinating and Greyback's ruthlessness admirable.
"Not long enough, Tom," Harry replied blithely.
Voldemort's face did not change expressions, but Harry's scar seared with poker-hot pain.
Harry hissed through his grit teeth, fighting down the urge to cry out. He succeeded, mostly, but only because Lucius knocked him to his knees from behind.
He felt the bindings on his wrist come loose and he fell forward, palms to the floor. His wrists were already raw, some of the skin scraped off by the rough rope.
Voldemort flicked his wand and a tray of three different potions, two vials each, floated between them. "There is no strict ritual to this spell," he said as he set the tray down. "It is straight magic, with activating potions, systematic charms-work, and natural enchantments. You've seen one of the like done before, at my father's graveyard. You remember that, don't you, Harry?"
Harry remembered all too well. It was a memory seared into his brain, because he had to watch Cedric die. It was also the very first time Harry had lost a friend to death.
"Your cooperation is… preferred," said Voldemort in a slightly regretful tone.
Harry refused to get provoked. "Where is she?"
Voldemort seemed utterly disgusted. "They'll be here in a moment. It baffles me still how you mortals rely on the weakest of emotions during your most…" He paused, searching for a word. "Trying times."
Harry shot him a sardonic grimace. "You're not immortal yet, Tom. Horcruxes are the boob-jobs of immortality. It may look and feel real, but the fact of the matter is it isn't."
Janus actually laughed, but Voldemort understandably didn't seem to find the humor in it. Given another second, he might have hexed Harry with something very painful, but a gust of wind struck the room, and it proved ample distraction for all of them.
Sparks of blue crackled throughout the ballroom and a spinning, phantasmal mass began to form. The mass solidified, a bright azure lantern of moving light. It came to an abrupt halt and revealed a cage carrying five men and a strange, rather large contraption that looked like an iron coffin held upright by a rack.
Harry recognized two of the men as Rodolphus Lestrange and Peter. The others looked like Death Eater lackeys, their faces hidden within their hoods.
The contraption was rolled out of the cage on wheels, and Harry couldn't keep his eyes off it. He seemed to bear an awful sort of fascination with it. It might have been the lazily shifting gargoyles and creatures that had been carved into the casket's metal exterior, or maybe it was just the rack itself, so medieval and terrible that it was almost reminiscent of the Gothic churches of old.
One of the Death Eaters edged slightly away from the group and sidled up to Snape.
Harry let his eyes rove discreetly, wondering if anyone else noticed. No one appeared to be paying Snape attention. All eyes were fixed on the contraption as they rolled it in Harry's direction, and Harry began to get a sinking feeling as to why.
The contraption was turned and the horrible reality of the situation dawned on him. His throat tightened at the sight of her, and blinking back his tears only made them spill over.
He rose from the floor and delicately trailed the pads of his fingers on her cheeks, afraid to hurt her even more. He whispered her name.
Her pained, hollowed eyes opened, and she gave him a tight-lipped smile.
He swiped the back of his hand over his eyes and glared at Voldemort over his shoulder. "Let her go. Let her go now or I won't-"
"If we let her go now," Lucius said, speaking out of turn, "she'll seek the nearest blood-source, so no, we're not letting her go."
"Janus will take care of her," said Voldemort with a slight sneer. "Won't you, Janus?"
Janus gave a tiny smile. "Better than how I took care of Lucien, surely."
Tears broke from her gaze, and that haunted look in Solomon's eyes were reflected on hers at that moment.
Harry's heart wrenched just as his fist tightened, and he desperately wanted to hit someone. He stepped closer for what little privacy he could get in a room full of people Harry had hated for most of his life. "It's going to be alright…" he said softly, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb. "It's going to be fine."
Her eyes widened, and she said nothing, but in spite of the tears trailing down her cheeks, her gaze blazed, as if she wanted to tell him something but couldn't.
Harry stifled his alarm. Had they cut off her tongue?
She mumbled something, lips sealed shut, her liquid gaze filled with urgency.
Discretely, Harry slid into her mind and her mental words were whispered.
Kiss me… kiss me, Harry…
His eyes widened in astonishment, but he did not question her intentions. Cupping her face, he pressed his lips to hers, and the feel of her tongue against his mingled with the taste of the last remaining vial of Snape's potion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yasmin looked up from her meditation and watched Nagini slither through the entryway of the cavern. Yasmin smirked in spite of the fact that her vision was swimming and her body felt drained of life.
"Well, hullo Nagini," she said. "Where's your mum?"
Dendera emerged from the darkness, beautiful and poised.
Yasmin couldn't help but sneer a bit, hating the fact that her lack of sustenance was beginning to make her look withered, her skin flaking at the edges. She imagined that her hair lacked luster, too. It was very aggravating.
Dendera spoke to Nagini in Parseltongue and Nagini curled up at the side, hissing at Yasmin with jaws wide upon before settling comfortably on her own body.
"They have taken Hermione for the meantime, and Harry seems to be in their custody. Everything is going according to plan."
Yasmin smirked. "Whose plan? Yours or the Oracle's?"
Dendera checked her nails, seating herself on a nearby bench. The seat looked fit for a cow-maid, yet Dendera managed to make it look regal. Yasmin thought Dendera such a waste of good breeding. Dendera could have gone places no vampire has ever known. She had such great power, and yet she succumbed to the lure of the Oracle's manipulations. The Oracle was, indeed, wise beyond imagining.
"Why do you think, Dendera, the Oracle chose to tell you, out of the three ancients, (for)this world-changing prophecy? Why did it not choose to impart this important piece of knowledge to Kalfani, who is older and wiser? Or Nehkbet, who is gentler and kinder? It chose you because of your ambition, and because of your blood… it knew that out of the three, you were the one it could sway most easily."
Dendera's eyebrow arched. "Ambition, I have. It is a trait I value, but I'd rather you didn't pretend that you don't share this trait with me. Your ambitions, child, are even greater than mine."
"True, but my reasons are sounder than yours. You are motivated by old-fashioned ancestry. You think that just because Voldemort happens to be your half-brother's descendant, you are entitled, somehow, to the spoils of this prophecy-"
"A vampire's mortal blood-relatives are held most sacred-"
"Yes, yes. I know the old saying, but I do not see Voldemort sharing this sentiment. Tell me… does he call you Great-Auntie Dendera?"
"What he knows of his relations to me is inconsequential-"
"He will turn on you," hissed Yasmin. "When he has his power, and he has his immortality, he will spill your blood with the rest of the poor mortals at his feet. He cares not whether you were half-sister, or bastard-daughter, to his great ancestors. He wants the power all to himself. He will not share. Just like his Great Grandfather wanted it. You wait and see, Dendera. He is just like Salazar-"
"Enough," whispered Dendera with palpably controlled rage. "Salazar never fooled me into trusting him. Even while I was so young, I knew Salazar was destined to fail. He went at his quest alone, and he was too human to see that immortality is the only true power. His heir has learned from his great grandfather's mistakes."
"Perhaps, but the question is… have you learned from the mistakes of your half-brother?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Standing on the islet just off the coast of Scotland, Ron looked at the charmed map he received from Viktor and frowned.
Solomon, noticing the indecision in his gaze, asked him what was wrong.
"The tracing charm's not in Azkaban anymore," Ron replied.
"What do you mean she's not in Azkaban anymore?"
Ron looked up, slightly annoyed. "I didn't say she isn't in Azkaban, I'm saying the tracing charm isn't. Snape said he would attach the tracing charm to Hermione's keeper. It's quite possible that the keeper left her in Azkaban and went back to London…"
"She's back in London?"
"Solomon! You're not listening!"
Solomon sighed. "I am! Just that I'm very confused right now!"
"You blokes going to Azkaban or aren't you?" asked one ferryman whilst sharing a bottle of whiskey with another.
"We don't know," said Ron helplessly.
"Vampires seem to be the rage these days," said the larger of the two ferrymen. He gave Solomon a cursory glance before turning to address Ron. "Bunch of them going on over there… course, the last couple of vamps on my ferry were prisoners. You seem to be getting along with that there vamp you've got."
Ron paused and eyed the ferryman curiously. "Wait a minute… did you just say, 'Last couple of vamps…?' As in plural?"
"As in what?"
Solomon shot Ron a look of annoyance. "How many vampires have been transported to Azkaban in the last two weeks? As prisoners?"
The ferrymen exchange glances and they both shrugged.
"Two by my count," said one to the other. They seemed to agree and together they said, "Two."
"Can you tell if they were both women?"
The smaller ferryman gave a lewd giggle. "Can we! Nice shape to 'em both, 'specially the firs' one. They don't make 'em like that anymore…"
Ron looked at Solomon.
"We're going to Azkaban," Solomon said. "If Hermione's with Harry, Harry will look out for her. If she's still here, we can find her, and find Yasmin."
Ron thought it over a moment before he nodded. "Let's go, then. We'll find Tonks's unit and go from there. Merlin save us, if we're going to spring anybody out of Azakaban, we're going to need all the help we can get."
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A/N: And as you can see, it ain't over yet!!! Until the next chapter, people!