Chapter Four - Calliope in Captivity
Calliope couldn't tell, but it felt to her like it should have been a dark and stormy night.
She imagined a storm attacking the world outside, the world that she knew – wind pulling at the trees and grass of Hollywyck, rain steadily drumming on the pavement of London, thunder echoing in Uncle's empty shop.
She sighed.
"You're not listening to me, are you?" Turpin said, irritated.
"No," she answered flatly. She was standing before him. He was seated in the desk chair, the single illuminated lamp drawn close to him.
"Do you even care about what I'm saying?"
She just closed her eyes. She heard Turpin sniff.
"Obviously my finer dissertations are lost on you… I thought I'd find someone more interested in the process, but obviously I've met a dud Ravenclaw. Fine. You're not here to be my assistant, after all. You serve me one purpose, and one only. You are a bank of secondary source memories of Benedicte Ollivander. And since primary source memories failed to provoke the result I wanted, I need secondary source memories. And that means, I need you."
"And remember," he added, "When this is over, for your cooperation, I'll intervene and liberate your brother, your cousin, and your Muggle friend. That was our deal. You remember, right?"
"I remember."
"Good. Now I'm going to make sure – " he drew his wand out of his pocket, a bright edge against the darkness, "that this is as easy as possible…"
He stood up. "Petrificus Totalus."
Just before she fell, he clutched the front of her turtleneck.
"There, now you don't have to bother yourself at all with reactions. Just…" he dropped her into the chair, "wait this out. Benedicte Ollivander. Leglimens."
Deft as an acrobat, he shifted through the ring of memory evoked by that phrase until he found –
Young Calliope, who had entered the quiet room with the bright red curtain above the bed for the first time. The door in the hallway was locked. This room was – not allowed. But – for an hour, two hours, three, Callie looked at every photograph, picked up and felt every figurine, in reverent silence.
This was Benedicte, gathered by her own hands, cherished in her life, all that she had left behind.
Calliope was aware that Turpentine's left hand was on her head, pressed with all the poise of a surgeon. His wand was at her temple. He pulled it away.
If she could have screamed, she would have – she felt a needlelike pain as the memory was displaced, extracted – no, no, she loved that memory, don't take it away – Her balance spun as she realized that the Death Eater was finished.
The memory was gone.
Into one bottle it went, a white coil of fog, and Turpentine corked the bottle carefully, and then checked her pulse.
"Normal," he muttered. "You're in good shape."
He stared at her for another minute, and said, as if he were a doctor, "The first time is by far the worst. Your brain gets a little accustomed to the spell over time."
Then he undid the Full Body Bind, and left Calliope limp on the couch.
ooo
The next night, the same assault.
"Benedicte Ollivander. Leglimens."
"Calliope. Come here. I think it's time that I told you about your sister."
Calliope sat before her mother on the couch in Hollywyck. It was the day before Hallowe'en, and Calliope was still very young. But she could remember, clearly, every word of the conversation that followed.
Don't take it away…
She couldn't help it being taken away…
She grasped at the last words that her mother said to her on that couch, on that day:
"You know, dearie, of all the choices I've made – that your father and I made – one right one was naming you Calliope Blithe. You have been nothing if not a joy to me." Callie folded herself into her mother's arms… Don't take this away…
The pain; the dizziness. The memory was now dangling from Turpentine's wand ('Now where did I learn to think of him as Turpentine?'), now falling into a bottle.
When she was alone again, Calliope tried to sleep, but her mind kept swimming in circles. She tried to remember her mother's voice, but it kept getting dislodged by a sense of vertigo, of a missing step in a staircase, or swimming in a wave, where she kept losing the ground –
The next night. Turpentine's light was familiar. His was the only light that was there in the darkened room. He didn't even say "Leglimens" with any pleasure, more like he was a scientist studying some animal.
Calliope closed her eyes, tried to close her mind against what she knew was coming—
It was dark and rainy outside, but inside the Tonks house in Oxford the lights were all on. Two little girls were spread on the carpet, heads together over a book, with more strewn around helter-skelter. Dora was wearing her hair long and blonde today, "like a princess." Calliope kept pushing her short hair and fringe out of her eyes, and felt very important in her blue tulip skirt. She loved the blue tulip skirt.
Papa and Mr. Tonks were both there today, leaning by the radio. Mama and Mrs. Tonks had gone out together this morning. All the grownups were so solemn today.
On the radio, the sound of applause broke out. Dora looked up and clapped in sympathy. "What're you listening to, Dad?" she asked, getting up and hurrying to the radio. "A play or something?"
"Shh, Dora, be quiet." Mr. Tonks patted Dora absentmindedly on the head as Calliope got up and walked over, smoothing out her blue tulip skirt. She stood between Dora and Papa, watching the unchanging radio. It said,
"And the trial is over, ladies and gentlemen. The trial of Bellatrix, Rastaban, and Rodolphus Lestrange, as well as Bartemius Crouch, Jr., is over. Now the judges are standing up as the Dementors take away the condemned… this is a bright day for the wizarding population of England and make no mistake… Mr. Crouch's wife appears to be in a faint. The other judges are trying to speak to him, but he merely supports his wife and begins to head down the stairs. The door guard has given clearance… now your faithful correspondent is on the floor, in the entrance hall, trying to get a word with Mr. Crouch…"
"How can he do that?" Calliope's Papa asks. "They'll be in Azkaban forever, how come he can't wait one meager day—" he quieted himself, now with one hand on Calliope's shoulder.
"All the major news correspondents are here, on the floor, but Mr. Crouch is speaking to no one – wait, who's this? A woman comes up to him, in a carmine-red cloak – what is she saying? – …" other voices were caught on the microphone, including Calliope's mother's voice.
"'… you must allow some mercy.'
"'Mercy? You would –'"
"Papa! It's Mama! Mama's on the radio!"
"Hush, Calliope!"
"'Don't put words in my mouth, Bartemius!'" Philomel's voice was scratchy but clear over the radio. "'You are allowing your personal feelings to block the path of true justice–'
"'The four killers, murderers, criminals are on their way to perfect justice.'
"'What about my child? What about justice for her? Bartemius, even if you will show no mercy to your son, give me a body to bury, please, Bartemius, for the love of God!'"
Calliope had never heard that strained, choking note in her mother's voice before. Papa's hand had left her shoulder. From the radio came Bartemius Crouch, Uncle Bartemius's voice,
"'Are you quite finished?'"
There was a pause, where the sounds of the crowd started up again and the reporter's voice came floating back, "Now he turns away from her, now he's almost dragging his wife through the crowd – still he will not speak to anyone – Philomel Ollivander puts her hand on her heart and stands there – your correspondent follows Mr. Crouch out to—"
Mr. Tonks turned the radio off. Behind her back, Calliope felt her father stand up out of his chair. He began to stride up and down the length of the room, his hands clenched so hard they were shaking. He repeated a French word under his breath, three times, four times, and then screamed it, once. Calliope didn't know the word but knew she wouldn't be allowed to say it, ever. Nor would she want to.
Papa kept walking back and forth, speaking very fast in French. Finally, some English came through: "How could he? How could he do it? How could be that way?"
Calliope was still standing by the radio, completely oblivious to what Dora and Mr. Tonks were doing. She stepped towards the anxious, pacing man and said, "Papa?"
He turned to her, and for a minute she was frightened, but then he knelt down to her eye level and hugged her. She had seen his face for just a minute, and it had filled her with so much sadness –
The Death Eater pulled the last memory out of the head, into the bottle. "Well done. Indeed. This is going to be swell…"
Calliope simply lay facedown on the couch. She thought she heard him mutter, "I think you're ready for the second experiment… Yes. Theoretically."
ooo
Turpin Rowle was sure he had the theory down perfectly – and what a theory it was!
He hadn't put into practice yet, but just the idea was – it was the sort of idea that made you itch to try it out in a parade of malice. However, Turpin reminded himself, there was not a trace of malice in his plan. Aside from the usual sort that came with being a Death Eater, no malice at all. That was business. This was personal. Revenge on Calliope Ollivander for having inconvenienced him mightily by lying about her memories… and for being a blood traitor and child of blood traitors, of course.
But of course, he was an optimistic fellow, and was sure he could find a way to make having an innocent captive on his hands work for his favor after all. Thorfinn,, politician that he was, was already planning out the best way to beg for ransom and make it a hostage situation, and so on.
But for right now, Turpin had found a way to combine revenge with a new experiment.
He stood before the door to the cellar, the book in one hand. He was rereading the pertinent passage for the thirtieth time. Blodwen, passing him, asked, "She was fed an hour ago, if that's what you're wondering."
"I wasn't, but thanks anyway." Turpin pushed open the cellar door and descended. He walked past the stacks of wine bottles and opened the door to Blodwen's old office.
Calliope was sitting on the couch, as usual. She did not turn her head when he entered, so he commanded. "Look at me." Sullenly, she did so.
He ignored how hollow and pale her face had become. He held the book aloft in one hand and his wand with the other. He cleared his throat and pointed his wand at the girl. She frowned, but didn't flinch.
"Spectatrum Terriblus… Autonatototum – drat. Spectatrem Terriblos Autonatum – what is that last word? Hold on a minute, the light here isn't good…"
"You say that like I'm in some kind of hurry," she replied, deadpan.
He glared at her, and then back to his book.
Meanwhile Calliope was breathing deeply, preparing herself for whatever would come next.
"Spectatrem Terriblus Atonatum Psychemis!" he said at last, confidently.
For a second nothing visible happened. Then Calliope gave a jolt as though she was choking. She coughed, and what looked like a small wisp of white smoke came from her mouth. It expanded and began to take on a shape. A voice came from the smoke, and it sounded like Calliope's own.
"You mean nothing to anyone."
Turpentine moved to get a better view of the spell's effect. The smoke solidified into the form of a young woman from the waist up. She looked to be Calliope's age, with a heart-shaped face and short, spiky, bright pink hair. Her face was beautiful and unknown to Turpentine, and it twisted with hate as she looked at Calliope.
"Oh, God, you," it said. "I was hoping I'd seen the last of you."
"Dora?" Calliope gasped. At once she shook her head, muttering, "No, not real, I don't have to look at…"
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" the apparition snapped, and the prisoner looked up. "I'm astounded that you've managed to live this long, weakling that you are. Of course that means you're still my problem, in case I don't have enough on my hands with the entire population of Hogwarts!" Dora's voice grew sharp and cold. "I'm sorry I fetched you from Boston. I'm sorry I thought you could make a credible member of the Order of the Phoenix. I'm sorry for all the years I wasted on being your friend, you parasite! You haven't got the…"
"The Order of the…?" Turpentine repeated, trying not to miss a word the apparition was saying.
Calliope still shook her head. "No… no!"
The apparition changed as she did so, morphing into the shape and voice of Linus Ollivander, looking older than reality, and very wise. The apparition's voice was still sharp as he continued, " – stamina or knowledge – you can't even cast a Patronus! Everyone has to protect you, you can't even lug your own weight, you – "
The figure changed again, it became an older lady with dark, grey-streaked hair and silver eyes and a noticeable resemblance to Calliope herself. Turpentine recognized Philomel Ollivander.
"—useless, gawky, apathetic, cold, unwanted – "
"No!" Calliope cried. The phantom of Philomel Ollivander babbled a few more phrases, but they were meaningless. The voice and face faded to a wisp of smoke, which dissolved, too.
Calliope slumped onto the floor, her eyes unfocused. Then she seemed to come to and glared at Turpentine furiously. She was shaking. But she spoke with certainty: "Dora would never talk to me like that. Nor Linus. And especially not my mother."
Turpentine shrugged. "Still, a very good first try," he said, keeping his face blank.
He left the office, closed the door, and locked it. He hurried upstairs, where he collapsed into a chair and poured himself a good brandy, reflecting that this was starting to become a rather regular occurrence.
Thorfinn looked up from behind his Chimera Economics. "How did it go?"
"Not – bad. For a first try, it went well."
"But?"
"Yes. But." Turpin sighed. "The spell is supposed to produce one consistent – or rather, escalating illusion of one person. It gets worse and worse, but it remains the same person. But my attempt turned into three different people sequentially and then petered out. She got the willpower to stop it. Somehow. You see, the spell depends partly on the will of the caster, and partly on that of the subject, for its effect."
"Ah. Where did you learn this spell anyway?"
"A book from Malfoy Manor."
"Did you ask before borrowing it?"
"No."
"Hm. Well, it still sounds like a good first try."
Turpin thought for a while. "I need to weaken her."
"Imprisonment will already do a lot to her."
"Yes, but – that's it!"
"I'm always happy to provide inspiration." Thorfinn went back to his newspaper.
"Blodwen, come in here, please. Thorfinn, listen."
Blodwen entered. "What is it?"
"I've decided. I've been too kind." Turpin sat up in his chair. "This new experiment will work best if – "
"Not another experiment, Turpin!" she cried. "For Morgana's sake, you've got me staying up half the night worrying about your first one! Why can't you just finish that?"
"Because monotony is unhealthy," Turpin insisted. "But this experiment requires no action of yours. An inaction, in fact. We will not feed our prisoner anything for the next 24 hours."
"Nothing? Why, Turpin, that's cruel!"
He gave her a look. "Need I remind you, Blodwen, of what Thorfinn and I do in our spare time?"
"He has a point," Thorfinn added.
"But a little water, at least, we owe her."
"All right. Water."
"And a crust of bread. It's traditional."
"But that's it. Tell Corky the same." The old house-elf would only take orders from Blodwen, his inherited owner.
She glowered, but answered "I will. And you will finish your first experiment at the first opportunity."
"I will visit her later tonight. Give her some time to rest, and then draw some more memories from her. Tomorrow night, or the night after that, I promise."
"And then what will we do with her?" Blodwen pushed.
"You leave all that to me," Thorfinn folded the newspaper. "I've been fiddling out all the fine details. We'll be able to wrangle a very interesting arrangement out of this, I think."
"And I've got a few more things to tell you, too, in private."
"I can see I'm not wanted any more," Blodwen said, taking her leave.
When her footsteps had faded on the stairwell, Turpin leaned in to his brother and said softly, "Thorfinn, I think our captive is a member of the Order of the Phoenix."
Thorfinn sat up at once. "What? Really? Are you sure?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Her first fear was someone named Dora – it seems like she's an Auror guarding Hogwarts."
"Nymphadora Tonks?"
Turpin blinked. "Who?"
"She's an Auror. She's currently guarding Hogwarts."
"Er. If you say so. She said she recruited our captive for the Order."
"You're sure that's what was said?"
"Positive."
"Well. Well. That does up the ante, doesn't it?"
"And yesterday, wasn't Nott saying something about Philomel Ollivander?"
"Yes, about fighting her."
"But she was banned from fighting. I heard something about it."
"He said that she was also a member of the Order of the Phoenix," Thorfinn reflected.
"Like mother, like daughter." Turpin gave a smile. "Now how does that change your calculations?"
"Rather." Thorfinn smiled. "Let's work this out, shall we?"
ooo
Meanwhile, Blodwen had taken the stairwell down to the cellar. She walked to the door of her old office and stood outside of it for a while. Her arms were folded. She stared at the doorknob.
She could hear the captive inside crying.
"What if it was Tristan?" she asked herself. "What if it was Tristan in there?"
She stood and listened. It seemed to her like the sobs were being stifled, smothered, as if to prevent anyone from overhearing. And the captive was doing a good job; Blodwen would never have heard if she had been a little further from the door.
"What if it was Tristan?" she repeated, softly.
She reached for the doorknob, then remembered, 'If Tristan had fallen in love with a Muggle…'
'There's only Turpin's word to say she's really a blood traitor.'
'Her mother was one before her.'
'She's crying and she's scared and she's only a child.'
Blodwen made her hand into a fist and drew it back. She took a deep breath, and sighed it out.
On the other side of the door, Calliope heard the sigh. She immediately stopped crying and worked savagely to wipe away all evidence of her tears. She forced herself to sit up and draw her long black hair out of her eyes. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
And waited.
Blodwen had heard the sudden cessation of crying. She did not know exactly what to make of it. She left the door behind – trying to make for the stairwell, but somehow missing it. She ended up pacing up and down the rows of wine stacks. Finally she returned to the door. Somehow it seemed to her that it would be easier to face the captive if there were no tears involved.
She put her hand on the doorknob, already picturing their encounter – she would meet the captive's eyes, coolly, and the captive would open her mouth –
And ask, "Who are you?"
ooo
Calliope heard footsteps retreating away from the door. She couldn't tell whose they were. She lay herself down on the couch. According to the clock on the wall, it was not yet ten. Turpentine would not be down for a while. She closed her eyes and gathered strength, telling herself one last time, 'Dora would never say that to me. Linus would never say that to me.'
Then again, 'That doesn't mean they don't think it.'
Then she assured herself, 'My mother would never have thought that. That was a lie. It was all a lie.'
She curled up on the couch. "All a lie."
Her stomach began to growl. She rolled her eyes. "Oh, hush, I do not have time to be hungry now. I'll get food in the morning. … Probably."
A/N: Yes, the Spectre of Soul spell (that's what it's called, what Turpentine just did there) is supposed to be the same spell as was cast on the locket!Horcrux in Deathly Hallows. That was honestly one of my favorite parts of the book. It's too good a spell for just Voldemort to use... or at least, that's what Turpentine's thinking on it would be.
Also, this chapter is shorter. GASP! That's why I've updated more promptly - no fair stretching out a wait for a shorter return, right? Besides, I've got a pretty complex few weeks ahead of me. Best to be prepared.
