Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
His eyes were almost crusted shut with congealed blood. His mouth hung slack, his neck stretched long in the noose, lips blackly ischemic. A cold mist in a driving wind rocked the man's body to and fro like the tongue of a clock ticking out the hours, a metronome to her pulse. She closed her eyes in the comfort of it.
The wind sluicing through the trees, the hush and murmur of the conifers, the yew bough creaking as it rocked the hanged man to sleep, cradled in strange dreams.
It was cold as death here. This too was a comfort.
The sky was blue.
She loved the early morning, this time between times, a dreaming time, when the sun had not awoken and the whole world seemed to be on the verge of telling her something, something great and mysterious, something she had forgotten long ago. It was like the pause before a kiss.
The sun always rises. The dream ends.
She would go back to rummaging thought from the bellies of dead man, scrying for herself in the convexity of their glassed eyes. When the sun rose. Not now.
For now, Bellatrix Lestrange watched Draco Malfoy hang from a yew tree, his chest rising and falling with unnatural life, and leaned back against the altar, stroking her sleeping sister's sweetly golden head.
She smiled.
Bellatrix was gone for over a week. Longer, maybe, but she'd lost track of time.
Her absence changed nothing, and Heather distantly acknowledged the possibility that the woman had rubbed off on her.
It was irrelevant. What mattered now was learning. And there was so much to learn.
She could almost cry at the volume of it. She'd known everything in the real world-calculus, algebra, biology, French, literature, history. She was an honours roll student, could hold her own against any university freshman from the time she was sixteen. And now, to find there were whole fields of knowledge central to the world she found herself in—it was worse than the time she'd gone on an exchange trip to Germany by herself, without knowing a word of the language. It was like learning how to walk again.
She learnt though. She pulled the cracked tomes from Bellatrix's bookshelf and set to memorizing them. Curses in the mornings, over the sumptuous breakfasts the house elves delivered her, handwritten journals and histories in the afternoons. In the evenings, she'd study the anatomy texts Bella kept on hand—similar to the Muggle ones, but with curious deviations that seemed to detail chakras, glands alien to any human she'd ever seen, and diseases she'd hope to never encounter.
If the Wizarding World did have any comprehensive textbooks for beginners, they weren't to be found in Bella's library. Any information she did find was suspect, being written largely from the perspective of her captors. The Ministry was incompetent and corrupt, bureaucrats obsessed with limiting the old families' power to retain their own. Mandatory public education was used to brainwash the young into accepting Ministry policies. Profiles of juvenile 'offenders' were forwarded to the DMLE for future observation, or used to justify search and interrogation of their guardians.
It didn't seem unlikely. Narcissa had mentioned dealing with a Ministry raids on Malfoy Manor after her son had bragged about their dark arts library to the wrong person.
On the other hand, Bella's books seemed to carry the same scorn for 'Muggle-Lovers' that some people had for vegetarians or animal rights activists.
When her vision finally blurred from reading, she walked around the room, practising the wand strokes of her curses with a pencil.
If Voldemort noticed a new violence to Heather's curses, he didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His wordless approval at her lack of hesitation washed through the bond, warm to the belly like a swallow of hot soup. She retaliated through the link, her irritation sparking like static on the periphery of his consciousness. He hated her for it—especially when it distracted him from delicate negotiations—and they returned to a comfortable opposition.
On the fifth day of Bella's absence, she'd had it. Outside of whenever the Dark Lord escorted her downstairs to practice her spells on unarmed men, and seeing the house-elves as they passed through to fetch her meals, she saw no one. She'd been locked in one room or another for—gods, how long had it been?—and she was going to go batty as Bella at this rate. Especially if she kept cramming texts into her head as though she was studying for finals. It was dead of night, and no one was awake anyways. The chains probably wouldn't let her run, but she be damned if it'd stop her from trying. She was going out.
This time, there was no Healer waiting behind the door.
Giddy with fear, she rushed down the length of the hall, looking for the stairwell, when a man opened a door.
She didn't skitter back against the wall like a startled hare, but it was a close call. She felt the Dark Lord wake in the back of her mind, and his annoyance gave her courage. She looked back squarely at the man, who was grinning rakishly back at her.
"Well, hey-lo, sweeting. Come out to join the party at last?" His eyes glinted. "Plan to give us another show like the other day?"
She opened her mouth to exclaim that the whole thing with Thester had been an accident, but thought better of it. Instead, she curled her mouth in a wicked smile and hoped she looked as much like Bella as Narcissa always said.
"May-be," she drawled. "If you make it worth my while."
He grinned wider, dipping his head to her genteelly. "Magnus Mulciber," he introduced himself. "A pleasure to meet you at last, Miss. Potter."
She curtseyed. It was less difficult than she'd expected. Death Eater or not, his casual flirtations reminded her of Piers, and his craggy face, furnished with a short black beard and messy black hair, could have belonged to any co-ed.
"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Mulciber," she cooed, mentally gagging at her tone. Seriously, did these people talk like a Jane Austen novel 24/7, or just when they weren't torturing someone's nuts off?
"Please, call me by my Christian name."
"I can hardly allow such liberties with a man I've just met," she told him, with all the hauteur she'd ever heard Narcissa use before the house elves. His eyebrows rose and he laughed.
"Gods," he whispered conspiratorially, his blue eyes bright, "aren't you a proper girl?" He straightened up a little, adjusting the hem of his rather ill-fitting robes. "Magnus. I insist, milady," he said, smiling, bowing to tuck a kiss to her hand before she could stop him. She'd spent too many uneasy hours considering the use of essences to ever want any wizard kissing her—but she supposed the minimal saliva from a kiss to the hand couldn't do much harm.
She hoped, anyways.
"Magnus, then," she agreed.
"So what brings a girl like you into a place like this?"
She shot him an annoyed glance. "Beyond kidnapping?"
He looked distinctly perturbed. "I meant, more like, into the hallway. You've been in there with Bella for weeks. You wouldn't believe the rumours that've started up."
She leaned against the wall.
"Try me."
"Well. There's a lot of the guys gambling on you two starting up a secret lesbian love-nest," he deadpanned.
Her own laugh caught her by surprise.
"Yeah, I didn't think so either," he acknowledged. "Then there's a few suggesting she's training you to be the Dark Lord's sex slave."
She went bug-eyed and wanted to retch.
"Hey, hey," he put up his hands. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."
She wondered if she could steal his wand and try that Entrail-Expelling Curse she'd read about that morning. She settled for intimidation. "Magnus," she said pleasantly, "would you mind telling me who suggested that? I'm sure our Lord would love to know who's been speculating on his intimate affairs."
He paled considerably.
"Ah, never you mind that then. What are you doing in there?"
"Reading," she muttered.
"Ah. Now there's something no one expected. The boys will be devastated." He regarded her merrily in the candlelight. "So, what brings you out this evening?"
Her breath hitched in her throat, but she arched her neck and smiled guiltlessly. "Believe it or not, you can only read so many books before you go batty as Bellatrix," she laughed breathily. "I'd thought to finally get a glance around the house, while there's less Healers lying in wait to jump me." She set her arm through the crook of his and looked up at him through her lashes. "Don't suppose you'd like to give me the grand tour?"
The look he gave her said he knew she was full of shit, and he couldn't care less.
"It would be my honour," he said, tipping his head to her again. "Where to start?"
"How many floors does this house have?"
"Five," he said lowly, as not to wake anyone else as they slowly strolled through the corridor. "Not including the basements, of course. There's the attic, but no one ever goes there. The Master keeps the entire fourth floor to himself. And this floor," he murmured bitterly, "is for the Dark Lord's most faithful."
"Oh?" she prompted.
"Permanent apartments for those of us with a price on our heads," he explained helpfully as they reached the stairs, and her stomach dropped.
"How did you end up there then?" she asked lightly, considering how best to excuse herself back to her rooms.
If it were possible at this point. The man's grip was unshakeable. His teeth, yellow as Bella's, gleamed by the gas lamps as they descended the stairs.
"The Dark Lord took me out of Azkaban," he commented nonchalantly. "Broke me out when he raided the place, oh, four years ago. Didn't just loose his own people—no, he let out every petty cutthroat and burglar and revolutionary stashed away in there since the Ministry started throwing people to the Dementors an age ago. Wouldn't some of the sorts we found rotting in the depths," he grinned. "Lot of them were too sick to move, and others just wanted to scuttle off to whatever lives they had left—but there were plenty right pissed at the people who put them there. You'd not believe the havoc," he said cheerfully
He picked a candle from the wall, and lit it. "Now, this is the second floor. Bit more easy to lose yourself than the third since they built additions onto the house that lead off oddways. Never you mind those—it's just housing in the back anyways. The most important bits are here—"
And gods be thanked, he loosed her arm.
"The laboratory," he gestured to the right to a door made of—stone?—with a heavy iron lock on it. "No one but Thester, Snape, and our Master have the keys. Thester usually recruits a couple of us with more potions knowledge into assisting with healing potions during the weekdays, but Snape gives her the boot and shuts himself up in there doing gods know what all weekend. Infirmary's at the end of the hall, and on your left here is a classroom."
Useless to her, at least for now. She didn't know how to tell a potion from a poison, much less brew either. And though they probably stocked herbs she'd recognize, unless someone was careless and left the door open, there was no way she'd be spiking Bella's tea with foxglove any time soon.
She followed Magnus back to the stairwell, and onto the first floor.
"Why did they send you to Azkaban?" she asked, though she thought she shouldn't.
"Loyalty," he shrugged. "Oh, and I suppose I was a bit too persuasive with some Ministry Officials," he grinned.
She'd spent enough time with Bella and the Dark Lord to know a euphemism when she heard one. "The Imperius," she murmured.
"Got it in one," Magnus told her, flipping his wand through the air and catching it idly. "Lovely little trick that, though a bit too over the top. The Lord's been teaching me subtlety since he took me home."
He guided her along the corridors. "You've already seen the dining room. The Ballroom isn't that interesting unless his Lordship's called the whole court in."
She peered disinterestedly into the room with its high windows and great marble fireplace, when something caught her eye. She looked past it, turning casually back to Magnus.
"Is it very difficult to use the Imperius successfully?"
He stopped dead in his tracks. "What, you've never done it before?" Her silence was enough. He whistled lowly. "Tough luck, lovely. What does he have you doing down there?"
"Cursing the prisoners."
"Oh, yes? Which curses?"
She tried to look nonchalant. "Accio, tergeo, diffindo. A few others."
He seemed confused for a moment before something seemed to click. "Oh," he laughed. "Tell me. How did those work for you?"
"Fine," she said tersely. She really didn't want to think about it. If this was the Dark Lord's way of corrupting her—and something more than intuition said it was—her diminishing guilt pointed at its effectiveness. Whether it was because anyone in her situation would have to lose their conscience to retain their sanity, or because of her proximity to the Dark Lord's mind, was anyone's guess.
"No, how did they affect your subjects?"
Victims, she thought sourly, and hoped that she reminded Magnus enough of Bella not to become one herself. "Oh, I summoned fingernails and hair—I rather wanted to take a heart, but our Lord insisted they be left alive," she said airily. "Scougified the skin off that tattooed man Bella's taken a fancy to. Hopefully it grows back in good time—I know she so hates for anyone else to play with her toys, but our Lord did think she wouldn't object to me borrowing that particular one."
Magnus laughed appreciatively, and Heather relaxed. "Creative. I'd not have thought of teaching elementary charms that way, but effective."
She frowned. "Elementary?" They had seemed awfully difficult to her, particularly to cast quickly while being rushed by a half starved madman, but he nodded his head in confirmation.
"Most of that isn't above, maybe, a fourth year level."
She goggled. He shrugged.
"You've never had a wand before, have you?"
She didn't think he'd believe her if she denied it. She shook her head.
He sniffed. "Thought so." He leaned loosely against the wall. "Wanded magic is like playing an instrument. It's all muscle memory and timing the movements. You have to start when you're young."
"Eleven doesn't seem very young."
He grinned wickedly at her. "Mudbloods start at eleven. The rest of us teethed on toywands. The ease of a spell really depends as much on the difficulty of the wand movements as the power and theory behind it. Everyone learns the elementary charms first because they teach the basic motions that you need to attempt more difficult spells. If you don't learn that…" he shrugged, but she got the idea. It was like someone who could barely play 'Mary had a Little Lamb' in 4/4 time on an electric piano trying to attempt a full concerto on a grand.
"But I can use the Cruciatus," she argued.
"Everyone in this house can use the Cruciatus." He took a pipe from his pocket and began polishing it. "Why do you think the Ministry makes such a kerfuffle about the Unforgiveables? They don't take any particular skill—just power, and the desire to use it." His eyes glittered. "No wonder the Dark Lord has you trussed up in Steel. He doesn't want a stray spell taking you out before you can protect yourself."
She really hadn't considered it from that perspective. "Why would he bother? If you're right, I'm never going to be 'another Bellatrix', so he can't be thinking of recruiting me."
Magnus snapped his fingers and took a long puff of his pipe. "Why indeed! Well, don't sell yourself short, Lady. It's not as though you're a damned Muggle. You could learn to use a wand yet."
"You think so?"
"Sure," he agreed, and winked. "Just take you about five centuries to catch up to the rest of us."
She was going to slap the bastard.
"So, what else can I show you?" he asked. "My forge, perhaps? The Dark Lord showed me the remnants of your runework. It's brilliant. Everyone knows runes are supposed to be used in permanent pieces—shields and staffs and suchlike—and then you come along, and make exploding doorknobs. Nasty things," he grinned, "usually we don't bother expending the energy on runes for objects that will only be used once, but the Dark Lord was so impressed with your little bombs that he asked me to try making a few for the raids. You should be proud."
She was going to be sick.
"Maybe you can come by and give your opinion?" he pressed, and waggled his eyebrows lasciviously. "I can think of any number of ways I could compensate you for the information…"
She smiled politely. "I will consider that," she said diffidently. "For now, however, I would like to know the location of the library. I find Bella's collection to be somewhat… lacking in variety."
"Completely focused on interrogation methods and battle magic, you mean?"
She nodded, not even blinking now at his euphemisms for what was really torture and terrorism.
"Ah. It's actually down in the basement, on the way to the Arena. I'll show you."
As he guided her down the hall and the next flight of stairs, she risked a question. "You were in Azkaban."
His confirmation was less blithe than usual.
"How… why aren't you as… affected as Bella?"
He snorted, tugging open the door to the library. It was small and silent and cold, the great hearth positioned far from the books and burnt down to coals, the shelves lit by blue light of captive faeries slumbering under bell jars.
"We're all affected," he murmured. "The Dementors winnow away bits of you until there's nothing left but the bare essentials. I was just lucky I'm whatever I am." He slipped his still smoking pipe into a pocket of his robes, and she wondered that he didn't catch fire. "Bella's a bloody conduit."
"A conduit," she repeated.
"You see a lot of them in the Black family. Medium, oracle, diviner, berserker. Whatever. They can channel the dead. Rumour has it the Blacks pushed inbreeding to ensure their bodies are compatible enough with their ancestors to allow possession."
"That's awful."
He shrugged. "Actually, it's damn useful. The old wizards and witches have been slaughtered in droves for the past five hundred years—if not by the Muggles, then by the thrice-damned Ministry. You know how much magical knowledge you lose that way? If any other family had their grimmoires destroyed and their old ones killed, it would be devastating. The Blacks—" he shrugged. "Nothing is ever gone, not forever. Their bloodline ensures an immortality of a kind."
"So she's crazy because she's listening to dead people."
"Probably. I never really wanted to ask for details," he grimaced. "Being stuck in a high security cell by herself for a decade, with nothing but the Dementors and equally crazed prisoners for company, probably has something to do with it too though. I at least got to share my cell with Nott."
"Oh."
He leaned against the door.
"Well, if there's anything else I can help you with—or if you'd like a tour of my apartments," he winked, "give me a knock. Shall I escort you up to your rooms?"
She steeled herself, and tried to quiet her fluttering heart, lest the Dark Lord feel it and grow suspicious.
"No," she said, "no, that's quite alright. I'll just browse. Thank you very much for your help, Magnus." She smiled graciously, and the man left, as though he had no idea she wasn't supposed to be here, and so, she waited for a minute, two minutes, three, and when she was certain he was gone, she carefully exited the library, and trying to be both fast and silent, slunk back onto the ground floor, to the ballroom.
The doors were still unlocked. She slipped in and walked across the huge, echoing hall to the fire in the great hearth, where a small glass bowl filled with green dust sat over the mantel. Her breath caught in her throat.
This could go badly. She didn't really know if this was what she was looking for, let alone how to use it, for certain, if it were. Her hands trembled as she picked up the bowl, and with sudden decision, pitched the whole thing into the fire.
The fire rushed up greenly, and she felt elation course through her, right before she felt him rouse curiously in response, a snake uncoiling at the periphery of her consciousness. She laughed and flung her spite into the link, her own personal fuck you to the man who'd destroyed her life, right before she stepped into the fire.
"Ministry of Magic!"
Thank you so much to all my reviewers, including the guests! Hope you all have a lovely week, and please feel free to say hello on your way out!