Chapter Ten: Occlumency
Nymphadora impacted with the ground heavily as Bellatrix' arms slid from around her torso, letting her fall with the brunt of the Apparition impact. Pain wracked her body, the curse worming its way into her again, until she'd struggled unsteadily to her feet and it sullenly abated, command fulfilled. That was the problem with the blood curses - all commands lasted until they were rescinded or contradicted. When she could finally see straight again, vision clearing, she immediately processed that she wasn't in the dungeons she had been expecting. Through the light buzz of pain still playing over her, she cursed herself for her stupidity. The first thing they taught you when you became an Auror was to think like the enemy – predict their reactions. She'd be in the dungeons if she posed a threat.
She didn't, from any point of view, pose a threat.
The second thing they taught you was to mind your surroundings. She was in what looked like the typical entrance hall of a pureblood home, but she didn't take much note of the colour schemes and elegant marble flooring so much as the entrances and exits. She'd been on enough raids to know that almost all ancestral homes looked the same. Twisting, ignoring the prickle of pain - purely from aching muscles this time, she turned to fix her aunt in her precarious mental map of the room. Bellatrix stood behind her, watching, waiting, savouring the moment and what would no doubt be a two toned expression of horror and despair dawning across her face. Nymphadora could feel it growing even, but was powerless to stop it. She hated herself, for the first time in seven years.
Exit pinpointed, she made a last desperate break towards the door, all of her senses turned up to full, hairs rising on the back of her neck in anticipation of the spell, heart racing wildly as she came closer and closer to the door, step by step, until her few seconds of impending freedom were broken by the cool voice of Bellatrix.
"Stop."
Nymphadora struggled a few more stumbling steps, feeling as if the little coils of pain that had wormed over her skin had sharpened into darts, all plunging simultaneously towards the core of her body, piercing lungs, heart, the delicate fleshy membranes of her skin and muscles as if she had been stuck through with a thousand pins, spears, and she was collapsing, shaking, shivering, tasting blood in her mouth, at the back of her throat. She let out a hacking cough that held the remnants of a scream that she hadn't been able to make at the time, and there was red on the smooth marble of the floor before her. Returning to herself, ever so gradually, she knew where her lowest point was, and she had reached it. This weakness…she knew she hadn't a prayer. Foster hatred and take opportunities she might, but she knew in her gut that those opportunities wouldn't present themselves for a long time yet. She still for a long moment, feeling the pain lessen, processing her situation.
Doomed, something in her brain whispered.
"Where are we?" she asked finally, pulling herself to her feet again, trying to obey her aunt's first command even while she swayed where she stood. No point in protesting anymore, she told herself viciously. The faster you break, the faster you sacrifice noble morals like dignity and pride, the easier you adapt. Adaptation was the law of Metamorphmagi; they were like flowing liquid, always bending and shifting into new shapes, new circumstances, like the reed in the wind. They survived through acceptance and adaptation.
"The manor of the Dark Lord himself," Bellatrix replied, with a hint of glee, of arrogance and pride in her expression.
Nymphadora had grown rusty in her freedom, she realised. It would take her longer than it should have.
"Follow me," Bellatrix commanded. She seemed born to make commands, cold and imperious as any wizarding aristocrat when she wished it, and Nymphadora hesitated because of that imperious nature just a moment after she turned, just long enough to feel the growing thrill of the curse as it pushed against her and she pushed back against it. The worming feeling across her skin deepened, and she fell into step behind the witch almost automatically. She would get used to it.
Trapped, she repeated to herself mentally, trying to crush down the panicky fight or flight instincts that rose in her chest at the mere word, because by the time they reached the end of this corridor with its lovely windows and closed doors, by the time they entered whatever room was their destination, she had to have accepted it all. Embraced it. In time she'd learn to love her new-found condition – there was no other way to do it, it was either that or go mad. Or die. She refused, above all, to die. If she had been seven years younger, she thought, she would have thought that her death justified something to someone, spited the enemy, vindicated the ally, martyred herself. Not anymore. Her death would just mean that someone in the New Ministry would file a little piece of parchment into her folder that declared her 'missing' or 'deceased', and the next day they would clear out her office, dismantle her wards, and push someone else into her position. What she was would have been categorised and redistributed. No one cared enough about her to risk storming the Dark Lord's personal headquarters. She doubted anyone ever had.
Bellatrix strode arrogantly before her, giving Nymphadora ample time to examine her estranged aunt. The woman had aged well, considering she must have hit her sixties. The last time she'd seen her had been years ago, across the battlefield. Even witches and wizards started looking a little worn at that age. She had about her, if Nymphadora were able to observe her objectively, the kind of self-assurance and lithe grace that simultaneously inspired envy and disgust. Here was someone who had no doubts about their own worth, intelligence and beauty. She was a little heavy around the jaw to be considered classically beautiful, but it gave her an aura of strength that would otherwise have been absent. This wasn't a fair-haired damsel by any stretch of the imagination.
But she'd aged, Nymphadora thought snidely, taking pleasure in the thought. Her body was lean and muscular, but there was a gaunt quality to her, the skin around her eyes and neck had begun to wrinkle, to hang more loosely, her hair had never quite regained the lustre it had had before her stint in Azkaban, and what little she had seen of the woman's skin had been marred by scars, some fine and elegant, others puckered and ugly. Living constantly on the edge hadn't done her any favours.
She is powerful, Nymphadora reflected as impartially as she could, but she's grown old.
Bellatrix flung open the double doors at the end of the corridor with a flourish, and then the next pair, and the next, until they reached the grandest of the set, done out in metal engravings that Nymphadora barely had time to see before they also swung back, revealing a cavernous hall beyond, without a speck of colour to break the stony grey. The ceiling stretched perhaps two or three stories, with an arched roof that she unwillingly spared a glance to take in. As she glanced over it she felt herself caught, slowing as she was drawn into the details, noticing that the ceiling was not, as she had thought, simply uniform stone and rafters, but engraved with similar spiralling shapes as those that had been on the doors, but they were so far away that even squinting she was unable to pick them out. Her footsteps lagged until the burning sensation across her skin rippled and she pulled herself back to the present. Bellatrix was halfway across the room before she finally dragged her gaze away and pushed herself to catch up.
At the far end was a raised dais that held a single stone chair, which to Nymphadora looked more like a throne than anything she would class a chair. A shiver went through her then, as her situation truly hit home. Her aunt had absolute power over her. The Dark Lord had absolute power over her aunt. She was a single woman with no particularly extraordinary powers, in enemy territory. All the shape changes in the world wouldn't help her now.
She couldn't tell if she was relieved or disappointed that the throne-like chair sat empty, with Bellatrix pausing before it. Had the Dark Lord himself been present, she didn't think she would have been able to stomach the situation, not all at once. With the drama of it built up with each set of doors they progressed through, emerging in this menacing hall to face what had become a mythical demon over the years, she reflected that she would probably have fainted or thrown up or soiled herself with fear. A strong stomach and self-control was one thing – she'd seen men disembowelled, been the one disembowelling them, but the Dark Lord, Voldemort, was something different altogether. You'd have to be a fool not to fear him.
On the other hand, if he'd been sitting in the chair like she'd expected him to be in the instant that she took in the hall, at least the first part would have been over.
For what? This isn't a count down to the finish line, she thought bitterly, and stopped for a moment mid-stride as a frisson of pain began to fight against her rising anger. Repress it! she chastened herself, crushing her desperate fury back down into the black ooze at the back of her brain. She couldn't afford to be rendered immobile by the curse at the moment.
"The Dark Lord is out," Bellatrix stated unnecessarily, looking momentarily lost, her grand entrance gone to waste. With a lazy flick of the wands she still held loosely in her hand, she conjured chains that looped around Nymphadora where she stood, manacles clicking into place around her wrists, ankles, neck. Bellatrix' eyes traced them from where they restrained her niece to where they emerged from the tip of her wand, and tugged them experimentally. Nymphadora stumbled forwards a step, and met Bellatrix's eyes for a brief moment, anticipating her next move perfectly, but not having time to prepare for it. In one swift motion her aunt whipped her wand back, dragging the younger woman to the floor with a dull thump.
Bellatrix cackled delightedly. "My master will be so pleased. He will reward me above all others!" she crowed, voice echoing hollowly around the vast room.
Nymphadora spluttered, then began coughing and convulsing as the curse burrowed into her skin again through her violation of her aunt's command. She wasn't standing up anymore, she thought desperately, tugging back against her chains, but her feet tangled and her ankles flopped uselessly, sending her back to the floor, and it was burning, burning, burning in her limbs…
"Oh, that's right, isn't it pretty?" Bellatrix laughed, voice drifting in ups and downs through to her. "You're still under command."
The words faded into mere sounds, until all that came through were bits and pieces of her laughter, sounds she couldn't even identify as laughter, not even as sounds anymore, as she was consumed by the pain, worse than before, worse than ever before, because it wasn't giving in, she was breaking, breaking, broken, accepting, grateful, and it still didn't leave her, and she thought that if it went on any longer, any longer than this and she would-
"Lay on your back like the little whore you are."
Peace.
Nymphadora panted; on arm moved in uncontrollable spasms, and her muscles shivered in exhaustion. The ceiling shifted imperceptibly above her.
"You'll be all burned out by the time I'm done with you." The soft rolls of her voice fell over her brain like feathers, too light to feel, too rich not to perceive, until they were all she could think about, all she could concentrate on. She didn't know who was speaking, but she knew that something horrible would happen if they stopped. "You know, I used to like Andromeda, as much as any sister could. Narcissa always looked like the one who would end up weak enough to fail us. She was so prettily delicate, and she attracted so much attention from the wrong sort. She was the kind boys sent flowers and wrote soppy poetry to. We'd hex her and hex her, and we had so much fun with her, but in the end it turned out to be your bitch of a mother that let the family down. She always was my 'dear' cousin's favourite, after all, but I put the mutt down, and I'll do the bitch too."
A pressure on her side made her moan, and the voice had stopped, and the intricate swirls and patterns in the ceiling were sinister, menacing…
"I could do you too, little puppy, after your mother goes down. She's too close to the old fool, too crafty. She married that Muggle for a reason, I know, she had to. She wouldn't otherwise – she was too crafty," Bellatrix repeated pensively, no longer even paying attention to the weak girl that lay at her feet, one shoe still resting heavily on her ribcage, preventing her drawing in too much air. "He knew something. Andromeda, mother's little favourite. We were so sure she would be the next Matriarch, but then…why? Why!" she shouted suddenly, lifting her foot and bringing it down sharply. Nymphadora grunted in pain and tried to curl in on herself, but the curse kept her with her back to the floor. "You were close to her weren't you? You were her only daughter, you little brat, you must know! Why did she betray us?"
Nymphadora winced, painstakingly pulling the threads of her mind back together as her aunt raved. She'd caught very little of the witch's ramble in her disorientation, but she'd caught enough. With painful deliberation she called her mother's face to mind and morphed.
It would be a last 'fuck you' before she was dragged too far under to even consider it.
"Because of you," she spat out, trying to force a languid smile, the kind of infuriating smile that her mother always gave people who asked too many questions, all honey and smoke.
Bellatrix screamed incoherently, kicking her again and again, making her chains rattle against the floor with metallic clatters, linking to the wands that her aunt dragged back and forth, and all the while she held the same shape, trying to keep it steady, keep her sense of victory up, keep her anger down, keep her revulsion down, keep her dizziness back as a blow landed to her temple, and then she was gone, shifting through a cycle of colours and shapes without any control, like a series of flip book images one after another.
"Bella, I do hope you're not damaging my newest possession."
The wild-eyed witch froze like a deer caught in headlights, in what would have been a ridiculous pose were it not for the bloodied woman at her feet and the burning mix of fervour and rage across her face. Slowly, almost mechanically, she lowered her leg and dropped to her knees, hard.
"Master," she murmured, pressing her forehead against the floor, "master, I'm sorry, I'm sorry master, I wouldn't…"
The Dark Lord smiled. "The blood lust is on you Bella," he observed.
"I'm sorry master, she's yours, I'm sorry," she continued.
"I'm proud of your achievements," he said lazily, moving forwards from where he stood in the doorway in smooth steps, light cloak fluttering out behind him as he moved. Eventually he came to stop by the broken figure that was still bound at his servant's feet. "It seems that your instincts were correct after all, and you know how I like to see my servants plans play out well. You have my favour, Bella."
"Master!" she exclaimed quietly, sound muffled against the stone, and then her eyes flipped up to his, still alight with the excitement and emotion from the moments before. "I will not let you down master, I am your most faithful…"
"Perhaps," the Dark Lord remarked, absently trailing a hand over her hair as he circled the youngest Black. The girl was quite beaten, but beneath the cuts and bruises from Bella's little tantrum he could see the endless potential of the Metamorphmagus as she drifted through various forms before his eyes. It was like watching a film reel, and it filled him with anticipation just imagining the potential of the girl before him, not in the least limited to the pleasures he and, after he had grown weary of her, various others were sure to get from her. If she could be fully bent to his will, and it seemed it would take very little if he took over from this point onwards, then she would be invaluable. No wonder the New Ministry had let her have such liberties in their organisation. They'd harvested young talent when it was ripe for the taking.
"Your wand," he commanded, holding out a hand to the dark-haired woman prostrate before him, and felt a small smile tug at his lips as the two lengths of wood touched his palm. He curled his fingers and dispelled the chains with a flick of the wand. Absently, he examined the foreign wand. Nymphadora Tonks, about nine inches, willow. Very pliable. A Metamorphmagus in his hands, he thought as he watched her shift, to be moulded like warm wax. They were the essence of change. They were evolution in its physical form. A Metamorphmagus, given the right stimuli, would be unable to resist altering, conforming, reflecting the changes he would create. She would become exactly what he made her into. She could be the perfect servant, he reflected, if only there were a way to stop her from changing once he had her where he wanted her. If she escaped, if others treated her differently…well, despite that, she would prove an interesting plaything. He would have a chance to experiment.
"Leave us."
Bella looked up at him with wide eyes, dark violet, taking a moment to process what he was saying, the thought to protest surfacing and dipping back under the stream of consciousness once more like a whale cresting the wave, ponderous but deliberate in its submergence.
"Of course master," she replied softly, all that anger faded, leaving her a little disorientated, but the fiercely intelligent mind behind her eyes was catching up so very quickly. He enjoyed browsing through her unguarded thoughts at these moments, evaluating what she saw and felt from her point of view, briefly. He watched her get to her feet, bowing gracefully and retreating to the double doors out of his sight. She would linger about the corridors for several hours, he knew, not only because he had her wand, but because her jealousy forced her to remain, to construct more and more fantastical situations in her mind, wherein her niece usurped her position of power. How easily it could be done, after all. He smiled to himself, stepping over Nymphadora's shifting form to his stone throne.
Watching her was poetry. Satisfaction. Her shifting was slowing gradually, but he had all the time in the world to wait for her to wake. He would enjoy every moment of it.
Outside, Bellatrix paced.
---
The Occlumency professor was a stooping woman whose grey hair hung in swathes about her head, obscuring her face, and moved in a loping gait that gave Harry the distinct impression that she was more used to ambling around a dim, low-ceilinged basement than anywhere approaching a normal house. She stood hunched behind Larch as they entered, and the comparison between the commanding, confident figure of his host and that of the woman that followed after was enormous. Whatever Harry had been expecting, it hadn't been this. He suddenly understood just why Fudge had always been trailing simpering morons; just by dint of the woman's presence, Larch's had been magnified tenfold.
"Harry, meet your Occlumency instructor, the charming Ms. Vesper."
There was a sardonic twist to Larch's mouth as he spoke that threw Harry. He glanced from his host to Vesper and back again, trying to keep the questioning look off his face and, he suspected, failing miserably. The woman didn't say anything, merely shifting to her other foot and letting her hair cover her face even more completely. "Ms. Vesper owes me a favour that she can carry out by teaching you," Larch said by way of explanation. Harry got the vague impression that he was trying not to laugh. "If the teaching is anything less than excellent please inform me immediately so that I may – ah – set things right."
"All right," Harry agreed warily.
"You may use this room. It will do as well as any other." Larch gestured vaguely around the lounge that Harry had been reading in. "In the meantime, I have things I need to pursue."
That left Harry alone with the peculiar woman, who shifted from foot to foot again and said nothing. Harry gave her a leery look and remained where he was, waiting for her to make a move. Months ago, he might have rushed to fill the awkward silence with nonsense, but instead he resigned himself to waiting her out. At some point she would have to do or say something, and from that he'd get a clearer idea of her. Larch had certainly seemed smug about something when he'd introduced her, but he wasn't sure what.
The silence stretched.
The woman coughed a little, making her hair sway back and forth, revealing a flicker of a shadowed nose and mouth and then covering them again. Harry breathed out sharply through his nose.
"I'm your Occlumency professor," she said suddenly, unnecessarily, as if she had been considering saying that for the past minute or so, working up the courage.
"Yes," Harry agreed slowly. Silence fell between them again that he wished would be broken quickly. He had a horrible vision of future lessons where the silence in each passing moment was as thick to breathe in as the air in a room without oxygen.
She sighed heavily and slumped onto one of the nearby sofas. Harry followed her into a seat opposite, watching her guardedly. She shifted about a little, adjusting baggy robes around her bony frame and sniffed loudly before falling back into silence. Harry drew his legs towards him, sitting cross-legged.
"Larch's boy then?" Her voice was abrasive and nasal to Harry's ears, peculiarly at odds with the way she looked.
"I'm not-" Harry began, unsure of what she meant. "I'm not related to him."
"He didn't say you were." She nodded knowingly.
Harry felt his brow crease in a frown. "Uh…yeah."
"Studied Occlumency before then." She sniffed again, the sound reaching into a snort. It sounded as if she were ill. Harry drew his legs a little closer towards him; there was something off-putting about the woman, something grubby and disgusting.
"Yes."
"Didn't work out then?" She gave a gruff chuckle and shook her head, grey hair swinging back and forth. "No, no. I can see it didn't." Harry was suddenly powerfully reminded of Trelawney. He hoped this woman knew a little more about what she was doing than his old failed Divination teacher. He wondered briefly if she was even still alive. "I can see it."
"You can see what?" he asked, not impolitely, but not completely respectfully either. He was becoming a little impatient.
"You," she said sharply, and began fussing with one of the pockets in her robes. "You need to be less open. I can see you. I can see you." Harry wondered whether that was meant to mean something to him, but whether she thought it did or not, he'd missed the point. He was a little insulted at being called 'open' with his emotions by someone so distinctly uncomfortable.
Finally she pulled out a long length of string with something hanging off the dirty white thread, something bronze that caught the light and threw it back dully. It reminded him for the briefest moment of the Time Turner Hermione had shown him, but it was a different shape… Despite himself he leaned forwards a little, craning his neck to see what she held in her hand. Vesper glanced up, and he caught the gleam of her eyes behind the mass of hair, and then she closed her palm over the little bronze object and brought it to her chest.
"Not now," she mumbled.
"So what does happen now?" Harry asked pointedly.
Vesper inhaled with a grunting noise. "Larch told me you didn't do well with your last Occlumency professor," she said, ignoring his question.
"No," Harry replied tersely.
"Mm." She made a strange noise at the back of her throat. "What went wrong?"
"I…" Harry blinked. "He…" He stopped himself, pausing to think about the question, really think about it. There was a multitude of reasons why their lessons hadn't worked, but no one conclusive thing he could think of to answer with. Snape had hated him; he'd hated Snape. Snape had just dropped him in at the deep end and never bothered to tell him how to 'clear his mind'. He had been so infuriated with the man that he really hadn't tried. He'd been drawn away by those dreams…
"Yes?" Vesper prompted. Harry started out of his memories.
"He…we didn't like each other a lot," he said, knowing it sounded weak and rushing to make his point more clearly, although she didn't seem in any hurry to interrupt. "He'd just say 'clear your mind', and then cast the spell and I'd have to block it. He didn't tell me how," he finished, bitterness swelling in his mind at the thought of his most hated professor. The man who'd been the cause of everything that had happened, the Department of Mysteries incident…he wouldn't have been here if Snape had taught him how to 'clear his mind'.
"Hm." Vesper seemed unconvinced. Harry could almost see the cogs turning in her mind, already drawing conclusions - the wrong ones, because Snape had most definitely been in the wrong in those lessons. Certainly.
You have to shoulder some responsibility Harry, you know that, he told himself, trying to force back his anger. You never learned; you never really tried to learn.
"So that's it then: you just have to 'clear your mind'?" Harry asked irritably.
"There's more to it," Vesper huffed. "Occlumency is a precise art." The word 'precise' was enunciated particularly nasally, the woman's tones making Harry think of nails down a blackboard.
She's no Snape, he reminded himself as he watched her.
You don't know that yet, a little voice in his mind replied, and he grimaced inwardly.
"Right," Harry said shortly.
Vesper sniffed again. "It is the study of becoming emotionless. Every memory you have has a marker– maybe you get angry when you think of them, or sad, or happy – that's what the Leglimens looks for."
She stopped to speak, seeming to think that this answered everything. Harry bit his lip, frustrated.
"So, what?" he prompted, unsure of what he wanted to ask, but wanting more to be explained to him anyway.
"You have to learn to take those feelings away – how you do that is your own business."
"But that's…that's impossible!" Harry exclaimed, feeling absurd to be saying so, but meaning it anyway. It seemed impossible. Nobody, surely, would be able to completely remove all the emotion from their memories. Emotions in memories were what made a person…well…a person! To take them away, then…you'd end up with something inhuman. Like Voldemort, he realised with a shiver.
"Not impossible, undesirable," Vesper corrected.
"Who'd want to do that?" Harry asked slowly, already knowing the answer. He knew, yes, but he needed confirmation.
"Dark wizards mainly. Politicians. Businessmen. People who it matters that their business stays there own." She shifted in her seat again.
"But it's not…permanent, is it?" Harry asked with a frown. He didn't exactly relish the idea of becoming an unfeeling monster.
"Not all of it."
"What parts aren't?" Harry pressed. He was being forward, yes, but he wanted answers.
"Merlin boy!" the woman grumbled. "Didn't you read a book before I came here?"
Harry had the dignity to blush. "No."
"Next time, make sure you read something," she told him.
"I will," Harry agreed easily, "but about-"
"Three types of Occlumency, if you want to break it up that way," she interrupted. "In reality it's not that simple. There's the basic method; you just try to remain emotionless – very easy to crack for any Leglimens worth their salt. The second: You want to hide something, but still remember it for what it was?" She paused, and Harry almost opened his mouth to reply before she continued on as if she hadn't noticed. "You mask the emotion. Dull it down. A Leglimens can still find it if they search hard enough, but so can you. You want a memory never to be found?" Another pause. "You completely remove the emotion around it. You'll never be able to look at it the same way again, but no one will be able to find it."
"And this…completely removing emotion, this is difficult?" Harry asked. Morbid curiosity made him ask.
"Of course it is. No one can completely remove it, not really. That's it made simple. You remove as much as possible, and then you hope for all you're worth that they don't find it," she said blandly. "It becomes easier, the more you do it."
Harry frowned and realising that he'd been leaning forwards to listen he relaxed back against the sofa again. It all seemed very strange to him, but it certainly explained more than Snape ever had. He supposed that if he removed the emotions tied to an important memory, one that had been formative to his character, then he'd end up as a very different person. If he removed several of those memories, then…well, he didn't think he'd ever be able to recognise himself in the same way. A person had to have some pretty powerful secrets to be able to bring themselves to prune away bits of their personality.
"And," he began, wetting his lips a little, "are there ways to get these – these emotions back?"
Vesper let out a rasping laugh. "No sonny, once they're gone, they're gone."
Harry thought of lightening striking earth – nothing would ever grow there again. He was starting to realise why Occlumency and Leglimency were such unpractised arts.
"Let's get started quick, or Janus will get on my back about it," Vesper interrupted his thoughts, letting the little bronze instrument fall from her palm to swing back and forth from the string. "This is what Occlumens call a Stingray."
Harry eyed it warily. "What does it do?"
Vesper smiled, and he could see it through the curtains of her hair. "It lets the blind see again, in a manner of speaking."
From the folds of her sleeve she withdrew a wand, pointing it briefly at him before swinging it round to tap the little metal instrument. It began to hum, a low sound that sounded to Harry much like a bumblebee. Across from him Vesper sighed, and the wand moved up to her face, sweeping aside the stringy grey strands of hair to reach her eyes. As Harry watched, more of her face was revealed, and he caught a very unpleasant glimpse of the mutilated skin above her nose. He flinched back involuntarily at the sight.
"Pah!" Vesper spat, tapping her wand once on her forehead and drawing it quickly across her eyes before letting her hair fall back over her face. The hum of the bronze instrument lowered a pitch, and her wand pointed towards Harry once more. "So, you've heard the explanations. Like your last Occlumency professor said: clear your mind. You're in for a bumpy ride."
Harry grimaced. "What does that do?" he asked again, eyeing the humming machine with a flip-flopping feeling in his stomach.
"Cataracts," Vesper mumbled.
It took a moment for Harry to process what she'd said, and another to understand what it had to do with the Stingray, but it eventually clicked. With eye contact so essential in Leglimency, it was unlikely she'd be able to launch a proper attack if she couldn't see well. Somehow he'd imagined that wizards didn't get things like that.
"Then the Stingray helps-"
"Focus my Leglimency, yes," Vesper finished for him, an irritable bite to her voice making itself increasingly apparent.
"So it was made just for that?" Harry asked, knowing his questions were bordering on rude, but not really finding it in his heart to care as he might have.
"No." Harry waited for the rest of the answer but none was forthcoming. It seemed he'd overstepped his limit. He made a mental note to see if any of Larch's books had something on Stingrays.
The device hummed at a steadily increasing frequency, and Vesper hunched even further over, cradling it and giving a loud sniff. When the hum finally reached a volume that felt like breaking point to Harry's ears, she gave it a sharp tap and muttered the incantation under her breath.
For a moment Harry twitched back, waiting for something to happen, the gap just long enough between the spell and the impact for him to consider that it hadn't worked, to drop his guard, before he was flying back from the world in a flurry of images before his eyes, one after another until they became a gradually slowing blur, spinning round and round like a roulette wheel. He caught snippets of one memory, the scent of mud and grass from another, a sharp whistle right next to his ears, a ghostly blow to the arm, a murmur in the distance, and then he was settling, slowing, he could feel Vesper latching onto something, searching, nearing…
Harry stood in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom ear to the door of one of the stalls trying to hear what Hermione was saying…he was sprawled across the floor of Gryffindor common room, admiring the lights on the tree, looking up to see Ron walk down the stairs, a broad grin on his face…he was sitting at dinner, hearing a silence, looking up to find Hermione dashing towards him, no longer petrified…he was watching Dobby warily remove a bundle of letters from the rags he was wearing, seeing the familiar handwriting…he was sitting in Transfiguration, laughing as Ron's beetle grew long green fur and got its legs tangled…
Harry found himself struck with an awful sensation in his heart, a painful mix of anguish and joy, spearing him so that he couldn't find it in himself to struggle against the onslaught, merely letting it wash over him, bathe him in the glowing feelings he got as he relived some of the best times with his friends. How could he fight this? How was he supposed to shut away what he felt about his first and closest friends, his constant companions for five years?
"Enough," Vesper cut through the stream, moving her wand away. "You're not even trying. If this is what you were like with your last teacher…"
"I wasn't!" Harry protested, coming back to himself, the ball of happiness in his chest fading. "I…he never searched for happy memories."
Vesper sniffed loudly again, and wiped the sleeve of her robe absently under her nose. "I'm searching for them because they're strong. What you have to do is throw off those feelings."
Harry nodded reluctantly.
"Now, on the count of three."
---
When Vesper left, Harry's head was pounding with a dull throb, as if the insides had been slowly filed down, leaving them rough and scored. The lesson had been simultaneously better and worse than those he'd had with Snape, mostly because of their eerie similarity. Whilst Vesper didn't shout at him or deliberately wind him up with deeply unpleasant memories, she was just as ruthless in her attacks. They'd begun with happy memories, working through his entire range of emotions before they'd ended on those that made him despair. He felt drained, wrung out of shape and colour.
The worst part, he reflected slumping onto the grass, was that that he could no longer blame Snape for his utter failure to learn the subject. Granted, he hadn't had it made easy for him, but he'd always assumed that Snape was keeping something from him, some secret that he could use to crack the formula and become an Occlumens just like that. The lesson with Vesper had shown him that he'd just been thrown in at the deep end, not taught faulty methods. Thinking about that, he realised that however much he hated him, Snape wouldn't have done more than wind him up during the lessons. In fact, the reason he had been so spiteful was likely because all he could do was wind him up; he wouldn't have gone against Dumbledore's orders, or sacrificed what could have been a valuable tactical position in the war. His own life as a spy had also rested on Harry's ability to learn Occlumency. With that in mind, Harry had to fully face the fact that the debacle at the Department of Mysteries was entirely his fault. He'd been the one to throw away the lessons by violating the other man's privacy. He'd been the one to not even make a token effort at learning Occlumency. He'd been the one to fall for the vision Voldemort had sent him.
And it burned. How could he have been so short-sighted? How could he have been so delusional? Having made his realisation, it seemed inconceivable that he could have blamed Snape and believed his own lies. He hadn't tried. He hadn't learnt. He'd put his friends in danger, Sirius in danger, all because he'd let his hatred of Snape get in the way. Frowning to himself, Harry made a mental promise never to let his vendettas against one person get in the way of him seeing the big picture again. He'd force himself to push back all these doubts and suppositions and look at things with as unbiased a view as he could.
Shaking his head, Harry absently tugged at the blades of grass beneath his fingers, looking over the garden. So he was going to end up pruning bits of his memories away. He'd recall them, but they'd be flat grey to him – nothing. A strange feeling rose in his chest as he imagined doing that to the memories he had of Ron and Hermione, and Hogwarts. He wouldn't. There was no reason to…was there? Harry wasn't so sure anymore. Something called to him about it all; the idea of being able to think back to his friends without that familiar twinge had its appeal.
They would be adults now, years older, and they wouldn't want to have him back in their lives. He was realistic enough to know that they'd have given him up by now, worked through their loss. To him, it had only been a few months, but to them it had been fourteen years. Nearly a lifetime. And he'd given them up…
Inwardly he cringed. There were memories he had of horrible times, things he didn't want to touch. The New Ministry…they'd taken everything. A spike of hatred rose in his chest at the thought. Only Merlin knew what they were doing with the information and samples of his flesh and blood he'd given and they'd taken. Unconsciously he tongued the rough patch on the side of his tooth, and promptly bit down on his tongue, concentrating on the sting to take his mind away from it.
Ron and Hermione had potentially been put in danger because of his inability to resist the pain of the Cruciatus. He didn't want to see them again and know every time he looked at them that he'd given them up under torture, even if the information was likely useless. They might not know, but he would. That he had given them up, and that he'd do it again if he was put in the same situation. Everyone had their breaking point.
Groaning, Harry pushed himself to his feet. Obviously what he'd intended to be a pleasant breath of fresh air hadn't been what he needed. Running a hand through his hair, Harry's frown deepened. He'd go to the library, bury himself in work. If he was tired enough, he wouldn't dream, and he wouldn't think of all of the mess that had piled up at the back of his brain.
---
The summons had been brief and succinct. A short jab of pain sizzling up his arm as he slept, sprawled out over the bare mattress he'd conjured before he collapsed. He'd ducked his head under the rusty taps and swirled a gob of water around his mouth, spat it back into the sink, grimaced in the mirror, ran a considering hand along the stubble on his cheeks and fumbled through his pile of clothes for his boots.
Mulciber was not an organised man.
Tied his boots, flicked a wand at the door to activate his wards, apparated. He'd arrived in the entrance hall barely a few inches away from Bellatrix Lestrange, who looked as wild-eyed as she had when they'd first been released from Azkaban. She hadn't said anything, but she'd stared, and he'd felt something flicker in his brain in response, something he couldn't pinpoint, and that unnerved him. The mind was his earthly paradise. He understood it like few others could. When things went wrong, when things changed that he was unaware of in the first place – that worried him.
Backing away from the dangerous looking woman, who still hadn't said a word, he'd headed towards the main chamber. He assumed his lord was there, but he couldn't be sure. Lord Voldemort liked to keep his servants on their toes. It created excuses to remind them of their place. Mind games, simple tricks. He knew them and recognised them, but coming from the Dark Lord it was better not to fight them. His position, his profession, meant that he was far more aware of the games his Lord played, but his Lord knew this, and handled him yet more subtly so that not even he could perceive exactly how he was manipulated. The Dark Lord was exceptionally skilled when it came to manipulation. People like Bellatrix Lestrange, he thought, don't need anything more complicated than a few grandiose gestures and a pat on the head. Crazy bitch that she was, she was completely zealously dedicated to their Lord. That didn't take much management to sustain.
The doors parted before him, one after another, and he could hear them hitting the stone walls with a screech and grind as he pushed them open.
The hall stretched before him, dark and immense. There was something about it that reminded him of Hogwarts every time, as if his master had twisted the place they all knew so well to fit his character. At the far end was the throne, but it was empty. His Lord stood before it over another figure, prone…perhaps one of the younger Death Eaters or someone from the opposition? Was that why he had been summoned? But if it was someone important then his Lord would deal with them himself, and if they weren't then they wouldn't be here at all…curious and yet more curious.
It was quite some time before he reached his master and dropped to his knees, but even this close he was unable to discern the identity of the huddled figure, although he was quite sure now that it was a woman. Her face was so marred with blood and bruises, turned away from him, as to be unrecognisable. There was a tang of burnt flesh that caught in his nostrils as he breathed in, faint, but noticeable when one knew to look for the signs. Burning…that was Bellatrix, he was sure of it. His master didn't use such crude methods, and with her waiting outside…
"Mulciber."
He bowed a little deeper, feeling a flutter of pride rise in his chest. The tone of the voice, a casualness, amusement…others such as Malfoy might have taken the spotlight in more recent years, but he had been with the Dark Lord since his first rise. He had been hand picked from the lower years of Hogwarts when his Lord departed to follow, aid, and serve. They had between them a kind of familiarity that money could not buy, born out of years of faithful service. He understood his Lord and the ways in which he worked better than most, not much, but an important fraction that set him apart from his master's other followers. Malfoy was a youngster in comparison to him, still inexperienced and inept, although he had proved to be a fast learner.
"My lord."
"Do you know what this is?" The Dark Lord gestured vaguely at the battered woman on the ground before them.
Mulciber took a moment to appreciate the juxtaposition of her black robes and blood splatters against the floor before examining her properly. Thin frame, obviously suffering the after effects of some curse or other, though not the shakes and frothing from the mouth that came from extended rounds of Cruciatus. If he had to bet money on it, he'd place his lot in the region of some of the torture curses targeted to specific body parts. No need to go all vulgar and start really cutting off someone's limbs when a spell will make them feel and imagine it just as well. She was clutching…what? A hand over her chest. Maybe the heart then – very symbolic.
The assessment took little more than a few seconds, but he found himself without an appropriate answer. He could analyse what had happened to her, the conditions, but not what or who she was. A magical creature? He briefly toyed with the idea, before brushing it away. His master was careful with his relations with magical creatures – torture this bad would imply a breach of their alliance, unless it had been negotiated. The vampires in particular didn't take well to their servants being harmed.
"I do not know." Lord Voldemort always valued an honest answer over lies or half-thought out guesses.
"This," his master replied, "is a Metamorphmagus."
Hearing this, Mulciber looked at the woman with new appreciation. What had previously been little more than a breathing corpse had become quite different…such possibilities quite literally lying at his feet. He turned, feeling Voldemort's gaze on him, watching his reaction, and a thought prickled at the back of his mind.
"Could this be the youngest Black?" he asked with a half-smile as things clicked into place. Bellatrix' pacing. The unexpected summons. The two who had been held back after the last meeting.
"Nymphadora Tonks."
The Dark Lord was still watching him as more memories fluttered forwards, each vying for his attention. He felt the light press of his lord's mind on his own, watching his thoughts as he processed them. It was both reassuring and deeply unsettling. He dealt with other people's minds, not the other way round; had it been anyone other than his Lord, then he would have driven them right back into the darkest pits of their own brains.
Nymphadora Tonks, he thought absently, restraining the urge to reach up and rub a hand along the rough line of his jaw. Nervous habits, he reminded himself. Bellatrix' niece, the girl responsible for the Blackthorn murders. The woman who'd been behind the intelligence that led to the destruction of the Manchester base and the compromising of the Ireland and Lancaster bases. So, he had a personal investment in this newest acquisition. It sent a thrill through him to think that the bloodied figure before him was Nymphadora Tonks.
"I see," he said slowly. "And you required me to…alter her?"
Lord Voldemort laughed, chilling him to the bone. "No, I am quite looking forward to that part myself."
Despite himself, Mulciber felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck at the sound. Even after this long serving him, when his master laughed it was never a good sign. It meant instability in his mood. His Lord was calculatingly mercurial, and his attitude switched from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye; all a follower could learn to do was adjust to each change as smoothly as they could.
Mulciber smiled humourlessly. He could imagine just how effectively the Dark Lord would go about breaking her…a Metamorphmagus. Quite the prize.
"May I ask how you acquired her my lord?" he asked, voice rumbling in his chest. Nymphadora Tonks. He couldn't get the name from circling his mind like a broad-winged bird now that she was right there before him.
"You may ask," Lord Voldemort replied, amused. Mulciber nodded fractionally, and the Dark Lord regarded him. "You have been in my service many years Mulciber - a very faithful servant…skilled in what you do." Lord Voldemort began to move, pacing softly round the vulnerable Metamorphmagus, making no attempt to avoid her splatters of blood where they pooled on the floor. "I have plans that I will be putting into motion that will require your expertise. For nearly sixty years now you have been by my side…one of the oldest parts of my family," he smiled eerily. "You have seen your companions come and go yet you have remained truly loyal; you understand well what happens to those who betray me."
Mulciber let a real smile cross his face, remembering with dark satisfaction the many times he had witnessed his Lord take revenge on the sneaks and fools who had thought that they could turn their backs when they got in too deep. Unbidden, the memory of Severus Snape's death returned to him, the man broken beyond belief. There had been no others after his betrayal.
It was perhaps the first time that Mulciber had got a true inkling as to the extent of his Lord's powers, and admiration had blossomed in his chest as he watched the delicate, systematic and, above all, inventive destruction of the traitor. For people like Bellatrix or MacNair blood and gore was all that they could appreciate, but Mulciber had seen beneath the surface to what others had missed and it had inspired him. Severus Snape had been as proficient as he was in the Mind Arts, and was a particularly adept Occlumens. Leglimency had never been his strong point, preferring as he did to defend, but he had been far more than adequate. To fool his lord for all those years he must have been exceptionally good. He could admire that. Mulciber had been one of the few Death Eaters present that understood just what effort it would have taken to reduce him to the wreck he had been before they killed him, and he could admire that in his Lord more than anything. Perseverance, control, and terrifying, awesome power. He had seen the like only in Albus Dumbledore, and the two were not comparable.
"There was a reason that you are granted the privilege of your place within my inner circle," the Dark Lord interrupted his reverie, placing a foot on the Metamorphmagus' cheek and tilting her head to the side. "You are not young or impressionable, nor arrogant and headstrong. You act decisively, and with forethought, and you understand the value of silence, which few others do." His eyes roamed over the Metamorphmagus' face, considering. "The New Ministry has stood unopposed for too long, and our battles with them have been at a standstill, but I have seen a future…I have seen a key to their doors. There is much in this girl's mind that I plan to use…she has the potential to become a most valuable asset." He looked up sharply, meeting Mulciber's eyes. "When the time comes, you will accompany her into the New Ministry and begin to usurp control from Peasgood. There are potions to permanently change your appearance, and you will not be discovered." Mulciber could hear the threat in that quite clearly.
The Dark Lord must have seen the hesitation in his face, because he laughed cruelly and continued, stepping back and letting the Metamorphmagus' face fall back to the floor. "You have spent too long in the shadows my cowardly friend, and it is your time to do what others have been doing for you." He smiled, and Mulciber swallowed, nervous sweat beginning to bead on his brow and under his armpits. "Oh yes…I know very well how you delegate your tasks to save your own skin, and you have lost me many a servant through your self-serving fear. I do not tolerate my followers avoiding their duties, and your history has earned you the highest…compensation…for all that you have shifted onto others. You will be entering the lioness's den, poisoning her in the safety of her own home. Through the New Ministry you will gain access to the other sides and topple them as you will topple the Ministry. I will accept no failure in this; you will succeed because your life depends on your success. I will not be so merciful as I have been before."
Mulciber felt something in him crumble at his Lord's chilly tones. They spoke of most unpleasant experiences that he really didn't care to endure again. Really, he was a horrible coward. How could he have thought that he could get away with sitting in his little flat, shunting whatever he could onto the lower echelons through the means of compulsion and coercion? All his years of age, and he still made the simplest mistakes.
"Now…" his Lord continued thoughtfully, looking at the Metamorphmagus again, almost…distracted. Mulciber noted this; it was not something that happened often. "I will require the seven part serums, three strengths of analgesic potions and a dose of morphine. Tomorrow you will bring me the less potent variety of the Helldancer, a general set of emotionally disruptive potions and a calming draught."
"Yes, my lord." Mulciber repressed his unease by running over the various brews that had been requested in his head. They were quite standard for what he assumed the Dark Lord would be doing, but he knew that appearances were deceptive; most of his Lord's experimentation would be done either through words or spells.
"I suggest that you request a profile of the New Ministry officials from Lucius' son. You will begin once I am finished with our newest guest."
Mulciber recognised the dismissal and bowed stiffly. With one last glance back to the limp form at his master's feet he headed back towards the doors of the hall. He sensed rather than saw the spell before it impacted, careful magical tendrils coiling around him, his mind rushing to identify the alien presence. Some variant of compulsion charms, associated with memory…but he could understand no more. In his mind things were replaced and overwritten, quickly and efficiently. He sighed. He hadn't even got the chance to write down his thoughts into his journal before they were mutated. All he was left with was the knowledge that something had been altered with his experience of the summons, without any way to affirm just what.
Bellatrix had moved on from the entrance hall when he returned, but he felt uneasy with her still lurking around the building. Mulciber shook his head. He would go home and write down the events as they occurred in his modified memory, and set to collecting the necessary ingredients for his master's little project. Then what? he asked himself. He permitted himself a faint smile. He could always check up on one of his own projects.
Horace Slughorn was long overdue for a visit anyway.
---
Author's Notes:
Occlumency – I've seen too many fics with 'Occlumency shields' or the visual building of fortresses; I've used the device myself in fact. But for this fic, I thought I'd do something a little different, so there'll be no 'Occlumency shields' Harry can snap into place whenever he feels like it, and which can be 'breached' or 'torn down'. Occlumency will rely almost entirely on emotional control and some skilful mental dodging on his part. Just like duelling, it'll take time for him to become a formidable force to reckon with - so no outsmarting a master like Albus just because he thinks he's got him all figured out and can go up against someone who has 150 years tops knowledge on him straight away.