Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine; the people of St. Targell's however, are.
Sunday, November 8
The people of St. Targell's were not the most impressive sort. Their village was quaint, old fashioned, secretive, and not very welcoming to outsiders—despite the gorgeous turquoise waters and sheltering Cornish headlands. The old men fished in the bay; the old women repaired nets and predicted the weather; the younger men and women ran shops and various trades. All was overseen by a priest and vicar from the ancient church on the headland. But for the villagers' clothes and the electric lights through the street, any visitors would have thought they'd stumbled upon some kind of historical reproduction attraction. Until the glares of the villagers drove them off.
Keith Gloyne was trying his best to glare away the smiling man in front of him. The fool was from London, dirty English snob—befouling the pristine Cornish coast with his fancy cameras and flashy flowered shirts. This late in the year they had usually run the course of the tourist mobs, but the mild fall had brought out a few stragglers, and now the man was in his pub!
The man thrust out a fiver as Keith slid a schooner across the counter (A schooner! Pathetic Englishman couldn't even order a proper pint!). Keith grabbed the change out of the till, wishing to Merlin the man would just go away.
Instead the man spent an hour in the corner flicking through his guidebooks and travel brochures.
Finally he stood up to leave, but just at the door he stopped and looked curiously at something in his right hand.
"Hey, uh, sorry mate," he said, coming back to the counter with a smile, "Just curious where this coin came from. Rather neat looking isn't it?"
Keith glared at the coin in the man's hand and suddenly blanched!
He quickly snatched the sickle from the man's hand and hastily riffled through the cash drawer for a 50 p. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. My mistake. It's… a… souvenir coin. Must have gotten mixed into the till somehow. Here you go."
He quickly stashed the sickle in the hidden cubby of the cash drawer.
The man was still staring at him, blinking at the silver coin in his hand. "Oh, well…er, do you remember where you got it? It was quite—"
"Nope. Don't recall. Sorry, sir. Have a nice day now!" Keith spun abruptly and charged into the back room.
He waited until he heard the door close after glares from the other townsfolk finally drove the man away before he returned to the counter.
Miles McGillis stood up and strode over, his pot belly shaking with silent laughter. "Close one, Keith. You're getting slow in your old age! You mix up the sickles and the pence again?"
Keither shot his friend a glare. "Twas your boy counted out the till last night, Miles. He must have mixed 'em up. Damn 50 p's are too close to the real thing for my comfort anyway."
"Well, no worries, mate. No harm done."
"It's getting too crowded here abouts," said old man Tom from the next table. "Too many strangers. I don't like it. Someone's bound to notice something." The old man glowered.
A bell rang through the shop and all heads turned to the far back corner where a door not more than a meter and a half high swung open.
"Ah, Pinwyth. What can I do for the Master today?"
A wizened little sprite bounced around the corner and looked commandingly up at the old men. "Lord Arcturus is asking for a small keg of the 1892 dark stout."
Keith bowed to the creature. "Of course. I be getting it right away."
The creature nodded in satisfaction.
"Any news from the Masters, Mr. Pinwyth?" Miles asked, sipping his pint with a smile.
The elf sent him a haughty expression. "Lord Arcturus is being busy with many important matters. He is having the whole house busy preparing."
"Preparing for what?" old Tom began suspiciously. "If he doesn't mind my asking," he added obsequiously after a sharp look from the elf.
"Lord Arcturus, being a great and generous and most forgiving wizard, is preparing to welcome the Heir to Castle Donerth."
All the men in the pub straightened up. This was news indeed!
"An Heir, ye say?" said old Tom. "Who's he? Where's he been?"
Just then Keith came back with a keg as tall as the elf. "Here you go, Pinwyth. Tell the Master, I thank him for his custom." He finished with a bow.
The elf nodded in reply and vanished with the keg.
The other patrons filled Keith in on the news. An heir! The Family was quite extensive, but Lord Arcturus was the only one any of them knew personally. Oh, they knew the Steward and the Agent and the Solicitor, and a handful of other retainers. But it was always a treat when Lord Arcturus came over to the village for a day. He took time to greet them each by name and bought something from every shop.
In fact, it was mainly out of loyalty to Lord Arcturus that the villagers were so careful of outsiders. The man may be a powerful Lord far beyond their social circle, not to mention a sorcerer, but just as they were his Muggles, he was their wizard. And no amount of modern foolery was going to cause the people of St. Targells to disappoint him.
Scrimgeour looked the petite witch up and down and frowned at the DoM credentials. His first impressions were not favorable. Silver blond hair was piled haphazardly on her head with her wand struck through it from the side. Her sky blue robes had a rather fly away look and she stared around the Auror's office with vague and unfocused curiosity. On the whole, the word that came most emphatically to mind was "dotty."
"Er… no offense, Ms…?"
"Celestia," she said dreamily.
Scrimgeour waited awkwardly. "Just 'Celestia?'"
"Of course."
Apparently the DoM didn't use surnames. "Well, ahem, er, Ms. Celestia, I don't mind telling you I am not comfortable with this. She's a trained killer. Hostile, malicious, possibly even insane—"
"Really?" the witch seemed to focus a bit more. "Oh, that is disappointing. And here I was hoping for a challenge."
Scrimgeour shifted. "I am not comfortable letting you in there alone."
The witch smiled up at him pityingly. "My dear Auror, er, what was your name again?" He told her. "My dear Rufus, the papers are in order, you have her contained, and she doesn't even have a wand. What will she possibly do? Claw at me?"
"I wouldn't put it past her."
The witch looked thoughtful. "I will take it under advisement."
Scrimgeour sighed. "She won't tell you anything. She's resisted all our interrogation efforts so far, even Veritaserum."
Celestia chuckled. "Of course she has! But you see, I don't intend on asking. Now, would you please show me to the subje—er, the prisoner."."
The paperwork was flawless and he had no real grounds to object. Feeling very much like he was feeding a lamb to a wolf, Scrimgeour led her to the cell holding Bellatrix Lestrange.
Bellatrix had come down from her boiling rage and was now merely simmering. Her hands were bruised and bloody from banging and scratching against the door and the walls. There were no windows or gratings, nothing to connect her with the outside world—just the sourceless light that waxed and dimmed in time with the sun. Her wandless magic had no effect on the room whatsoever.
She had spent hours pacing, ranting, raging against the Ministry, against Dumbledore, against her family, her husband, and even –she barely, barely, stopped short of raging against her fellow Death Eaters. At least, she stopped short of naming them as she cursed their families, bloodlines, the day they were born, and the day they'd taken the Mark. She hated them, the lot of them. Filthy cowards! Wretched, useless, hopeless, pathetic, spineless spawns of maggots! But she was a daughter of the House of Black, and the chosen wife of the House of Lestrange. These pathetic imbeciles who dared imprison her would learn nothing. She would take their questions, their manipulations, and spit them back in their faces. She would give them nothing!
Her cuffs were fraying as she picked at them but she didn't notice, not even when she started actually chewing on the loose threads.
Noises outside vaguely registered in her fevered mind. Fever? Yes, she probably had one. No matter. She was strong. Her mind was a fortress. Let her be ill. Let them starve her. Let them torture her. Nothing could compare with her master's Crucio. She was unassailable!
Footsteps. Voices. At the door. She heard the bolt draw back, felt the change in the wards of the room. She straightened and turned to meet her new tormentor, a sneer already plastered on her face and her mind already locked down.
Blue eyes, somewhat lower than hers, fanned with silver lashes were all she registered before a sledge hammer hit her between the eyes.
Celestia gave no introduction. The moment she locked eyes with the subject she leapt straight into her mind like a diving hawk after a rabbit.
The woman reeled, clearly losing all sense of the real world. Automatically she leaned forward, but Celestia caught her arms.
"Ah, ah. None of that, my dear," she whispered almost lovingly. With one arm she guided the subject to sit on the cot and with the other caught her chin to keep the black eyes locked with her own.
Celestia dove, fought, flew, ran, and danced through layer after layer of defenses and distractions. She'd rarely seen a mind with so many layers. Some were as solid as a brick wall; others as insubstantial as mist, but all the more distracting for the vivid images that inhabited them.
She was careful, methodical. Every layer was thoroughly explored before she ripped it away. Every so often her free hand would draw a silvery substance from the woman's mind and place it carefully in one of the crystal vials arrayed on the table in the cell. The deeper she went the more treasures she discovered and the harder the woman fought. Celestia was assaulted by images, phantoms, mazes, and monsters. She faced each obstacle with complete equanimity. The calm surface of her own mind served as an impenetrable barrier, reflecting back every defense the woman tried to raise; a steady and unstoppable probe moving inexorably, patiently, deeper and deeper.
Finally, she came to an obsidian fortress without door or window, but with turrets and towers reaching miles into a black, swirling sky. A sky filled with flying terrors. Celestia was quite impressed. Here was the woman's inner most self, her final defense, and she had it protected by Dementors! Of all things! Few people even knew they existed, or had ever existed before Tiberius' great Purge after Grindewald fell. For this woman to have them defending her mind spoke volumes of her black character.
Celestia walked around the castle, completely ignoring the wraiths circling overhead. They dove at her, sucked at her, and she allowed them to simply pass right on through. Fear was the woman's weapon, but only Celestia could give it power.
Celestia placed a hand on the stone wall and felt the fortress—every stone, every corner, turret, joint, from the deepest foundations to the tallest spire. She mentally held each molecule in her mind until she owned each and every one of them.
After a heartbeat, or perhaps a lifetime, she stepped back and with a simple wave of her hand, denied the stones permission to exist. The obsidian walls crumbled into dust.
Dimly, she recognized the anguished, paralyzed cry of the woman in the cell with her. The cry went on, and on, rising quickly to a wail and them diminishing to an ongoing whimper. Only Celestia's hand on the woman's chin held her upright.
Celestia spared no thought for that. She had seen enough murders and betrayals in the past hours to satisfy the most macabre fantasy for a lifetime. The last dust of the demolished castle blew away, along with its sinister guardians. Arrayed before her was a swamp. All minds had their own intrinsic make up, usually some sort of organic system that connected all the experiences and beliefs of the individual—everything that made them who they were.
Despite being a superb Occlumens, Bellatrix Lestrange clearly hadn't ever taken the time to tend to her own mind as a mind. She merely built walls and defenses around it without ever exploring or nurturing her own self. What a waste.
Being now in complete control of the poor soul, Celestia again waved her hands and the swamp transformed into a neat and impressive building. It was not a library; she couldn't simply ask for a topic and find the book with everything spelled out. But as she wandered the halls and explored the rooms each object, even the floorboards or the loops in the carpets, represented some facet of the woman's person. A memory, a thought, a relationship.
It took some time, and Celestia had more than once to conjure additional memory vials. But in the end she released her subject. As her hold on the inner recesses of the woman's mind let go, the building vanished and Celestia's last glimpse was of the swamp, now in utter ruin.
Over two dozen vials of silvery liquid were summoned, shrunken, into her pocket. The session had been most productive! It was nice to stretch her skills from time to time.
She looked down at the woman and felt the faintest stab of pity.
The woman was a monster, to be sure. She had gladly, joyfully even, tortured over a dozen people, many of them her own comrades. At least three deaths could be tied to her wand, and she was culpable in countless more to some degree. Celestia had counted over thirty Unforgivables. Add to that various counts of left, espionage, terrorism, and the less criminal but still despicable lying, cheating, manipulation, and general cruelty. The Board of Governors would be most interested to learn how Miss Black had passed her Transfiguration NEWT.
And yet… the woman was now completely broken. Only well-ordered minds would withstand the kind of ravaging Celestia had wrought. The Chief Warlock would probably not bat an eyelash. But Celestia had literally shredded the inner sanctum of the woman's mind and then abandoned it. Not only that, but she had pulled over two dozen memories from that inner sanctum. The impressions of the memories were still there, so the woman knew exactly what information Celestia had taken, but Celestia knew the woman's mind would forever feel hollow and empty after this.
The woman didn't speak, but continued to whimper and shudder, as if she wanted to weep but had forgotten how.
Celestia supposed that was understandable as well. On top of the other damage done to her mind, the poor thing was left with the knowledge that she had just surrendered every possible iota of information that could be used to bring down every person she cared about—assuming she was capable of caring, which Celestia somewhat doubted. Celestia was particularly interested in the revelations about a certain cup in her vault and the many, many, revelations regarding Lucius Malfoy. Though it was clear the woman wasn't particularly fond of any one (except perhaps the Dark Lord himself), she had fought particularly hard to protect memories of her brother-in-law.
All in vain.
Well. Celestia needed to get these vials to Carmichael. She turned her back on the broken figure and swept from the room without a backward glance.
At the door she handed half a dozen vials to the astonished looking Auror. "You may find these most useful. Expect more once the contents have been more thoroughly examined. I'm afraid your prisoner may require assistance from a permanent spell damage expert. Good day!"
Ashes…
Dust…
Ruin…
Pain. Unbearable pain!
Pain that started deep in her chest, in her head, and wove, stabbing through not just her body but her very soul.
All was ashes and dust! All was in ruin. There was nothing left.
No matter what she did to collect herself—literally, to collect her very self—Bellatrix was confronted by faces. Condemning faces contorted in scorn and outrage and the deepest disappointment.
She had betrayed them all. She had failed. Failed to protect them! Now the Ministry had everything. Everything!
There was nothing left. She had nothing. Was nothing.
Only pain…
Pain and ashes…
Ashes and dust…
Scrimgeour stared at the broken figure of Bellatrix Lestrange. She lay on the cot just as they had placed her, staring at the ceiling, eyes occasionally roving wildly. Her lips moved ceaselessly but no sound came from them. Her hands twitched, plucking at the cot, her robes, her nails, the cot, robes, nails, cot… Sometimes her whole body would shudder and tears leaked from her staring eyes down her temples.
They had tried talking to her but she gave no answer. Sometimes she flinched when they touched her, but other times she ignored them completely.
Scrimgeour glanced down at the warden's report.
He recalled his fear from that morning—ten hours earlier—about feeding a lamb to a wolf. Apparently, he'd been wrong.
He hadn't led the lamb to the wolf. He'd taken the wolf to the lamb.
Unlike his wife, Rodolphus did not pace his cell or rage against his captors. He sat quietly, already having given up. He would have followed the Dark Lord to the bitter end. Well, the end had come and it was bitter indeed. He presumed that somewhere in this wretched dungeon of holding cells his wife was throwing herself at the walls. He was actually grateful for the sound proofing wards.
He sat up as the door opened.
It took him a moment to recognize the towering figure that entered the cell and sat sedately in the chair across from him. When he did he felt the blood drain from his face.
"I see you recognize me." The man's voice was so deep it seemed to come from the very stones.
Rodolphus merely nodded.
"Then perhaps you know why I am here?"
Rodolphus felt the sweat break out on his neck. He swallowed heavily. "I don't know much," his voice sounded pathetic even to his own ears. Shaking! He was shaking! "The Dark Lord kept things very close."
The man nodded. "But you will tell me what you know."
It was not a question.
Rodolphus swallowed again, and nodded in return. "Everything. Only…." He was relieved to see the man raise an eye brow. Perhaps there was some feeling in the giant. "My brother."
The man nodded once again. "He will survive. We will see to it. After that, it's up to the MLE."
Of course. Even the Department of Mysteries couldn't erase all their crimes. "Thank you."
The man held out a scroll. It was too early for a confession: they didn't even know what crimes to have him confess too. Instead, the parchment—no vellum, Goblin made—gave the Department of Mysteries full access to any and all artefacts in the Lestrange Family Vault. Rodolphus swallowed again. Clearly they already knew more than he could tell them if they knew about the vault. His list of bargaining chips, never very long, was growing thin indeed.
Rodolphus held out a finger and the man tapped it with his wand, bringing forth a drop of blood. Rodolphus swiftly pressed it to the bottom of the scroll. He glanced up as the man took the scroll and strode to the door.
He'd once had a different name, this legendary figure who'd invented spells and strategies used by Grindewald. Few, very few, would connect the calm, stern Tiberius with that mythic sorcerer.
Tiberius spoke a few words through a crack in the door and a few minutes later one of the Aurors brought the man a glimmering black Pensieve. Tiberius set it on the table and resumed his seat. He handed Rodolphus a wand. With the first touch Rodolphus could tell the wand was so heavily restricted he'd have trouble casting even a Lumos with it. But it would suffice to pull memories into the Pensieve.
"When you are ready."
A few hours later Tiberius sealed and shrunk the pensive, as well as the ever-extending-scroll of parchment he'd used for his copious notes, and rose to leave. Rodolphus' throat was raw with answering the man's questions. Tiberius stopped at the door and looked back with something akin to pity in his eyes.
"I should tell you that one of my colleagues visited your wife today. It did not end well for her."
Rodolphus frowned briefly, wondering if this was yet another crime to be laid at his wife's feet. But reading the man's face he understood. "Is she alive?"
Tiberius nodded. "She lives, but there is more hope for your brother than for her, I fear."
Rodolphus nodded slowly and turned to the wall, waving away the man away. It was little less than they deserved. And more than he expected.
Da's deep voice was shouting. The voice was upset, afraid! That deep voice was never afraid. It always laughed, was always happy. Now it made Harry afraid too.
He was jerked off the floor suddenly. Mummy was never rough with him! She never kicked his toys either, but he saw them skitter across the floor. She always made him feel safe, but now he was more afraid than before. Something was very wrong!
Mummy ran up the stairs and he saw the bright lights flashing behind them. Da appeared but suddenly fell down after a bright green flash and the deep voice wasn't there anymore.
Da sometimes played games with Harry about being very still but he knew this wasn't a game. Then he heard the other voice. The mean voice.
The mean voice followed them. It had red eyes; Harry didn't like them. It was shouting at Mummy! Mummy was shouting back and Harry knew she was afraid too. Harry cried but no one noticed!
There was another green light and Harry fell to the floor. It hurt! Mummy had fallen over too! He squirmed around but she wouldn't hold him. Why? Why wouldn't she hold him? He was scared!
The mean voice was saying things again, and there was another green light…
A different deep voice broke though the nightmare, startling but familiar. "Ssssssssh! Shhhh, pup. Hush. It's alright. I'm right here, pup. I've got you. It's alright."
Harry realized he was crying, but large hands were holding him tight, rocking gently. Da was gone. Mummy was gone. Pads had told him the mean man had taken them away. Pads used to be happy too. He used to always be fun, but now he was sometimes serious and sad. Everything was wrong! It wasn't alright. It couldn't be right. He wanted Da! He hiccupped and started crying afresh.
"I know, pup," Pads spoke quietly, but his voice reverberated through the barrel chest straight into Harry. It was soothing, but also painful because it wasn't Da. "I miss them too, pup. But we've got each other now. We'll be okay, you'll see."
Harry buried his head in the soft fabric of Pads' shirt and kept right on crying.
Sirius cradled the small boy, rocking back and forth on the small bed and gently massaging Harry's head. He could guess what had Harry upset and was almost glad he was too young to talk about it. Sirius wasn't sure he would be able to hold it together in that case. The last week had been something of a blur. Much of it had been empty time, just him and Harry hanging around the flat, with brief flurries of activity with the Ministry getting things settled. It was fairly easy during those times to focus on moving forward, just getting things done.
But at night…
At night everything stilled and all the distractions drifted away leaving behind two enormous holes that could never be filled. For either of them.
Harry's nightmares weren't at all unusual after such a horrific event. But Sirius knew, though Harry couldn't tell him, that the worst part of every nightmare was waking up and rediscovering that it was him, Sirius, and not James holding him.
Here in the nursery, holding his best friend's son, Sirius felt with aching clarity just how much they had lost barely a week ago. Barely a week, and life would never be the same. All his reassuring susurrations slowly dissolved until, without realizing it, Sirius himself was weeping. His tears streamed down to mingle with the unruly black hair as he held the boy to his chest like a life line.
Long into the night the two black haired boys held each other. At last, exhausted from grief, they fell slowly back against the pillows of the small bed, fast asleep.
A/N: Eat some chocolate. You'll feel better, I promise.
