A/N: I'd like to issue a general suggestion that people for whom explicit description of violence is likely to be troubling proceed with some caution. This and the next few chapters depict relatively graphic imagery.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Valjean

The air was cool and damp as they plodded alongside the road. Behind the clouds, the sun's weak attempt at rising provided only a washed-out glow, but Valjean did not need any light at all to see the situation was dire. Javert walked silently at his side, his hands tied in the same manner Valjean's were. Around them marched the Death Eaters, who had closed ranks enough to prevent either of them from running, not that Valjean was likely to try. He was disarmed, and as he had told Javert once, physical force would prove of little use against magical foes.

The wizard directly behind him was paying especially close attention. No doubt each member of the party had been warned of the consequences should either one of them manage to slip away again. The result was that Valjean did not dare test the strength of the cord around his wrists, lest they see fit to replace it with something stronger. If he bided his time, he would surely have the opportunity to try later. That was, if they lived that long.

Except for the crunch of boots on gravel, the forest was totally still. True to Faure's description, Valjean did not see so much as a lark flitting among the branches; they had to be approaching the manor. Valjean felt his stomach clench with nausea. Though his head was lowered ostensibly out of submission, his eyes scanned left and right as he prayed for something, anything to use as a distraction.

Even as he looked, Valjean's gaze lingered a long moment on Javert. Perhaps sensing as much, the Auror glanced sideways at him before turning his head forward again. A single question tumbled around Valjean's thoughts in a persistent cycle: why had Javert come after him?

When he had lost sight of the Auror during their flight through the woods, he had feared the worst and hoped for the best. It was not inconceivable that Javert could have escaped, and Valjean would have gone down fighting gladly if it kept the Auror out of harm's way. Instead, Javert had come back, and though the attempted rescue warmed his heart, it was also terrifying to think that now they were both in danger.

As if to underscore the point, the Death Eaters chose that moment to veer away from the road, moving to the left and up a steep slope. The trees were denser there, and it was slow going through the brush. Valjean let himself catch on the undergrowth deliberately, willing to try anything which impeded the Death Eaters' progress. The strategy did not last. Quickly, he was herded onto a dirt track, and then he had no excuse to falter. The track had been invisible only moments prior, and Valjean was uncertain whether it was some natural break in the forest or if it was enchanted.

It was not long before he got his answer. The earthen rut widened and became properly a path, and then the path turned into cobblestones. Trees almost seemed to bend out of the way of the stone lane, shifting in the corners of his vision but standing still when he looked directly at them. It was a weird, disorienting effect, and it was evidently getting under Javert's skin, if the glower on his face were any indication.

Valjean's breath hitched as they came around a bend and the Château de Lestrange appeared out of the trees before him. The path led straight to the gatehouse, a forbidding stone structure flanking tall iron gates. Beyond the gates was the manor, and Valjean thought to himself that he had seen cathedrals less grandiose in scale.

As Vidocq approached the gatehouse, he called out a greeting. An answering voice hailed him, and a moment later, the gates swung open seemingly of their own volition. Valjean realized with mounting alarm that once inside the walls of the complex, it would be nearly impossible to escape undetected, even should he get free of his bonds. Nobody walked in without being seen, and neither did anyone leave without the gatekeeper's permission. Stopping in his tracks, Valjean's mind churned for a solution, but a wand jabbed him in the back of the neck.

"Keep moving," the wizard guarding him growled.

Left without a means of recourse, Valjean trudged forward. Javert's face was ashen, and the Auror did not look at him as they stood side by side in the forecourt.

Now past the gatehouse, the manor was at last revealed in the full extent of its magnificence. Two secondary wings projected forward, one on each side of the cour d'honneur, with the front facade framed perfectly between them. A sweeping mansard roof was punctuated by dormers and smoking chimneys, and the slate shingles held a bluish sheen. The main wing was fenestrated with dozens of square windows, while a pair of turrets marked the back corners of the manor. Under different circumstances, it might have been beautiful. As it was, the Château de Lestrange had the look of a well-fortified prison.

There was no time to talk, and in any case, Valjean did not believe he could have formed words of comfort even given the chance. The Death Eaters led them through the cour d'honneur, passing stables and outbuildings as they made their way up to the main doors. The windows stared down at the courtyard like vacant eyes; those on the inside had the power to surveil the entire property.

Going on ahead of the group, Vidocq climbed the steps to the tall main doors and banged on the knocker. A minute passed, and then there was a creak as the left door opened. Standing on the other side of the threshold was a house elf, wearing a pressed linen sheet like a toga. He barely came up to the wizard's waist.

"Monsieur Vidocq, you have returned," the elf squeaked.

"Call your master downstairs," said Vidocq. "He will want to see me immediately. Tell him I come with gifts."

The elf peered around the wizard's legs, taking note of where Valjean and Javert stood, surrounded by Death Eaters.

"At once, Monsieur," the elf replied. "And would you care for any refreshments?"

Vidocq considered this. "A brandy would do," he said, "and a scone. It is past due time for breakfast."

The elf ushered Vidocq inside, and Valjean received another prod in the back, driving him forward. A fleeting, frantic look around the courtyard told him there was nowhere to go but through the door. He did not want to - there was a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach which intuited he might never come out again - but his mind had gone blank. If there existed a way to save them, he could not think of it.

Javert, having received a similar sort of jab, climbed the steps with the same vacant, shell-shocked expression that had been fixed on his face ever since their capture. Valjean was not about to let him face whatever awaited them inside alone; praying for strength, he followed the Auror into the lion's den.

The antechamber of the château was as grand as the exterior suggested. A double-height space rose from checkerboard marble floors to end in a vaulted ceiling above, from which hung a tremendous chandelier. Medieval weapons were mounted to the walls in brackets, and above them was a tapestry with the Lestrange family crest woven in the center. Despite the torches which flickered on the walls, the antechamber was dimly lit, and Valjean felt a shiver run through him.

A long ribbon of pine-colored carpet spanned from the entrance to the hallway, on the opposite side of which was the opening into the Grande Salon. Valjean and Javert were compelled at wandpoint to go that way, and with every step it felt as though another weight were placed on Valjean's already-heavy heart.

If the antechamber was impressive, then the sole function of the Grande Salon was to demonstrate the wealth and power of the Lestrange family lineage. Taking up the full height of three stories, the Salon was cavernous, echoing, and oppressive. Dark walnut wainscoting wrapped the walls, while to the left and right, ornamental staircases led up to a mezzanine level. On the far side of the room was an assortment of lounge furniture and a fireplace, the massive stone chimney for which ran up the entire height of the wall. A portrait hung over the mantle; it depicted a severe, dark-haired woman, who sat in her frame blinking disapprovingly.

Valjean's shoes clipped on the marble floor as he walked; biting his lip, he willed himself quiet. They crossed the Salon, and while the pair of Death Eaters keeping watch over them continued to follow, the rest fanned out, silently arranging themselves around the perimeter of the room.

Valjean approached the fireplace, Javert at his side, and he noticed a figure standing in front of the hearth engaged in conversation with Vidocq. Then the light hit the figure's face, and Valjean recognized Rodolphus Lestrange. He looked up as they came to stand within the circular glow cast by the fire.

"You will have to forgive my lack of hospitality," Rodolphus began, "but we rarely have visitors so early in the morning. When we heard a pair of broomsticks had been borrowed from the Palais de Justice in Tours, I thought I had best send out a welcome party, just in case. It seems I was right to do so." Rodolphus smiled thinly.

"Inspecteur Javert," he said, stepping forward. "I believe we have been introduced before."

"It was at the last benefit night the Premier Ministre held for dragon pox patients," Javert murmured listlessly.

"Ah, yes, of course," Rodolphus replied. "Perhaps, then, it surprises you to see me here."

"Not especially."

The nobleman's gaze narrowed, but he turned to Valjean instead. "And you must be the convict I have heard so much about. I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to meet."

Valjean found his fear had left him, now that he was confronted at last by the face of his captor; Rodolphus was only a man, clever but fallible, and Valjean had escaped from far more secure locations than the bourgeois settlements of the Loire Valley. He did not reply to Rodolphus, merely looked at him evenly.

Rodolphus' eyes glittered as he went on, "Madame Perrier whined for days about the blows you landed her in your little courtyard scuffle. Perhaps we will find out if you have the strength she claims."

He raised his head, motioning for their guards to step forward. "Search them," he commanded.

The pair of Death Eaters drew near. One pawed through Valjean's coat and pockets, finding nothing but his wallet, which the man confiscated. The other had better luck with Javert; he had to untie the Auror's hands, but he was then able to strip Javert of his greatcoat. A little digging revealed those bottles of potion which Javert had thought important enough to carry with him. The wizard held a phial up to the light. Its contents were clear as water, and Rodolphus chuckled.

"Veritaserum?" he asked, reaching out to take it. "Thought you might be using this on me?" The nobleman's expression carried the suggestion of a threat as he added, "Don't worry, I am sure it will not go to waste."

He pocketed the little bottle, and then asked, "Their wands?"

Vidocq cleared his throat in response. "Here, Monsieur," he answered, removing two thin, wooden sticks from the inside of his robe. One of them was clearly Valjean's, but the other... Valjean felt his heart sink in understanding even as Rodolphus snorted.

"You call this a wand?"

He held the remains of Javert's hornbeam aloft, where the firelight showed clearly how it was cracked all the way down the middle, almost broken in half. Had not Javert said that he had determined what was causing it to fracture, and could avoid it worsening? Had he been mistaken, or was it possible that the Auror allowed it to happen?

Javert focused on his wand with a particular fascination. For the first time since their capture, an emotion other than numb resignation crept over his face.

"That's enough, Babet, Claquesous," Rodolphus said, gesturing to the Death Eaters who had searched them. "Step aside. Our guests know better than to run, and anyway, I would test this Auror's mettle." Valjean's wand disappeared into the nobleman's robes, but the hornbeam Rodolphus tossed to Javert, who caught it automatically.

"You have been a thorn in Gisquet's side for weeks," said Rodolphus, "but in the end getting hold of you was child's play. If he would have left it to us from the beginning, you would never have gotten this far. I've given you your wand, so stand and prepare to duel like a man."

"This is hardly fair," Javert objected.

"Of course it is fair. Now be polite, and bow." It was not a request.

Javert gave a jerk of his head which would not have passed for a bow even in the loosest of terms, but Rodolphus did not seem hung up on the particulars. His own bow was exaggerated and mocking, knowing full-well that the Auror could do nothing in retaliation. Then he looked directly at Javert and raised his wand.

"Crucio," Rodolphus said calmly.

Javert did not have time to so much as blink, let alone get out of the way. The curse hit him, and there was a single instant in which his eyes widened in surprise. Then he fell to the floor as his knees gave out from under him. Valjean processed that only somewhat; his attention was taken up by the sound of Javert screaming.

It was not the sort of sound any human should ever have been made to produce. Agonized and ear-splitting, it reverberated through the room, recalling to Valjean's mind the way the curse sent pain lancing like white hot knives through its victims. His soul ached for what the Auror was enduring. Where he writhed on the ground, Javert's fingers twisted in fistfuls of his hair, his shattered wand abandoned on the tile beside him, useless.

It was horrible to watch. Javert attempted to resist, fighting to sit up, but it was clear that it was too much. Before long, he had been reduced to curling into a ball with his hands over his head. The sound of his cries did not stop, only was muffled by his robes.

Valjean peeled his eyes away to look at Rodolphus, wondering if the man would listen if he begged him to stop. The satisfied curve of the Death Eater's lips suggested he would be only too happy to let Valjean plead, and then deny him. Surreptitiously, Valjean glanced around at the rest of the room. Babet and Claquesous were the only ones in close enough proximity to see their faces, but both were intent on watching Javert suffer; he only hoped that none of the others stationed around the Salon were paying him any mind.

Forcing himself to be careful, Valjean began to work at the cord binding his hands.

Eventually, Javert's scream was reduced to a whimper, and then to silence as he panted for breath. Rodolphus broke off the spell, watching the way the Auror's crumpled form trembled.

"This is only a taste," he said, "a fragment of the pain you will taste before the end."

Rodolphus stepped closer, nudging Javert with the toe of his shoe, as he went on, "You think you are already spent, that you cannot possibly feel worse than this, but there you are mistaken. You see? Crucio."

A low keening escaped Javert's mouth as the spell struck him fresh. Where he lay on the floor, he curled into an even tighter ball, unable to do anything but wait it out.

Rodolphus sneered as he ended the curse. "This can go on for hours, even days, and it will," he said. "And then, only when you are broken beyond amusement, you will die. You are rather pathetic, really. I don't know what Gisquet was so worked up for."

At that moment, unseen by anyone else, Valjean pulled loose the rope. He shoved it into his pocket, just as Rodolphus looked at Vidocq and said, "Take these two down to the dungeon."

Heedless of all else, Valjean rushed to Javert's side, where he knelt down.

"Javert," he whispered. "Javert?"

He received a small, pained grunt in response.

"Come," Valjean said, even as Vidocq approached them. "On your feet. I will help."

Javert opened his eyes apparently with some effort, looking at Valjean's proffered hand. He tried to sit up, though he was clearly unsteady; Valjean slid an arm around him and helped him to his feet.

Standing, Javert leaned heavily on Valjean for support. He trembled still, and leaned his head against Valjean's. Nobody appeared to notice that Valjean was suddenly free to use his hands, or if they did, then nobody cared.

Rodolphus spoke, even as Valjean held Javert upright. "My Bella is accompanying her brother-in-law back to England, and I know she will be terribly sorry to have missed your arrival. But never fear - she should be back tonight, to give you the greeting you really deserve. You can make yourselves comfortable in the dungeon in the meantime."

The Auror schooled his features into a scowl as Vidocq pointed his wand at them.

"This way," Vidocq ordered.

Javert almost appeared as if he meant to refuse, and Valjean tightened his fingers momentarily around his shoulder in warning. The Auror stiffened and then sighed. Swallowing what remained of his pride, Javert let Valjean lead him in the direction Vidocq indicated.

"Wait," came Rodolphus' voice from behind them. Valjean closed his eyes in dismay - what else could the man possibly want?

There was the sound of footsteps, and then Rodolphus pressed Javert's wand into his fingers.

"You almost forgot," the nobleman laughed. "And that would be such a shame, wouldn't it? Go on and keep it, it might be useful for kindling." Still laughing, Rodolphus stood aside and let Vidocq take them into the neighboring room.

A twisting passageway went off further into the manor, but Vidocq stopped at one of the first doors. He tapped it with his wand, and it opened, revealing a set of stone steps lit by a single torch. They led down into darkness.

"If you behave," said Vidocq, "I won't have to lock you in one of the cells. You can just occupy the front room - who knows, it may save some time later."

He grinned and gestured toward the stairs. Eager to be left alone, even if it was in the bowels of the château, Valjean tugged on Javert and together the pair entered the stairwell. They had only gone down a few steps when Vidocq shut the door behind them, and enchantments bolted it fast.

Immediately, Javert sagged.

When Valjean made a noise of alarm, the Auror shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. "I'll be fine," he amended as Valjean regarded him with concern. "Just have to climb down these damn stairs, and -"

His words turned into an indignant exclamation as Valjean picked him up in his arms.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a note of helplessness in his voice.

"You will fall, otherwise," said Valjean, descending carefully. "My God, Javert, you can barely stand, you are still shaking like a leaf - you need to not strain yourself and rest."

There were no other torches at the bottom of the stairs, and so the room in which they had been abandoned was difficult to make out. It was cooler, and the floor felt like stone underfoot. Valjean set Javert gently on his feet and squinted as his eyes adjusted.

Javert held his head. "Ah," he said. "Excuse me."

He crossed haphazardly towards what Valjean thought was the corner, and a moment later, the sounds of the Auror retching reached him. This went on for several minutes, after which Javert just supported himself on the wall, breathing heavily.

"Well," Valjean said dryly, "I'll thank you for not doing that on me."

Javert huffed a laugh. "Consider yourself lucky," he said. "It was a near thing." He directed his wand at the mess. "Evanesco." Nothing happened, and he muttered darkly, "Of course."

Gradually, the room came into focus, and Valjean had a look around. It was dark, still, but the light in the stairway made it possible to pick out some of the details. There were not many of them. A few columns supported the manor house above, and there was a single door on the far side of the chamber, which presumably went back to the cells Vidocq had alluded to.

There was also, he noticed, a drain in the center of the floor, down toward which the flagstone slabs sloped. Valjean shuddered a little. Grateful as he was not to be locked in a tiny cell, that still struck him as ominous.

Javert had edged away from the corner and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the wall and closing his eyes. Valjean joined him, scooting close enough to touch.

The Auror cracked one eyelid open to peer at him askance. "This entire, charming interrogation room to ourselves, and you had to sit right next to me?"

"I can move," Valjean replied, going to get back on his feet. He paused as a hand grabbed him by the sleeve.

"Don't," Javert said softly.

Re-situating himself, Valjean leaned against Javert's shoulder. The Auror did not remove his hand from where it was curled around the crook of Valjean's arm, and so after a moment, Valjean rested his free hand on top of Javert's. They sat like that for some time, silent but for their breathing. Javert's shaking subsided as he regained control of his muscles, and he rested his head lightly against Valjean's.

It was impossible to say how much time had passed when Javert murmured, "I am sorry, you know."

Valjean thought at first he must have misheard. "Hmm?"

"This is my fault," the Auror explained. "I should have known to be more careful. We wouldn't be here if only I had expected a trap."

Coming to the realization that he had in fact heard correctly, Valjean shook his head. "No," he said. "You cannot blame yourself for this - it was as much my idea to come here as yours."

"You must get out of here," Javert continued as if Valjean had not spoken. "Leave me if you have to, but swear you will run if you get the chance."

"Not without you," Valjean insisted.

Javert turned to look at him seriously. "They intend to break us and then kill us, Valjean," he said. "I will hold out as long as I can, but when they succeed, you will be the only one left who knows what the Préfet is planning. You must get away - if not, it will be as you told me, and innocent people will die."

There was a shard of truth to Javert's words, but Valjean found he had no desire to leave Javert behind. He knew that it was selfish - he wanted the Auror at his side as much for the company as he did for the man's safety - but he told himself he would just have to find a way. They went together, or not at all.

Valjean did not respond any further, except to curl his fingers protectively around Javert's. His eyes closed as he thought through idea after idea. If they were going to get out of there, the first thing they needed was time.

Javert

It was difficult to keep track of time in a windowless room, but several hours had to have passed. Javert sat with his arms crossed and his knees drawn up to his chest. He was hungry, though that was a feeling easily ignored. At his side, Valjean's head was tilted back against the wall; the man had dozed off. Javert envied him for that. He was exhausted, but he also knew he possessed no chance of finding sleep, not so long as he felt like there was an axe hanging over his head.

Rodolphus had said Bellatrix would return by that night. As much as Javert might have wanted to believe the witch would fail to attend to him until the next morning, he very much doubted that would be the case. He could still feel the memory of pain just under the surface of his skin, and he was unsure how long he could tolerate more.

Valjean mumbled something in his sleep and shuffled positions. One of his legs brushed against Javert's and then stayed there, their knees touching in a single point of contact. Javert wondered if he should move, but decided Valjean did not deserve to be disturbed. He stayed still, and Valjean slept, and time passed.

Javert could not have said when it was that he first felt eyes on him, but he looked over to find Valjean watching, wearing an unguarded expression. His eyes were still half-shut, but in the meager torch light, Javert saw the trace of a smile on his lips.

"You have been sitting like that since before I fell asleep," he said. "Have you moved at all?"

"Not really," Javert admitted.

"You should stretch," Valjean recommended. "You'll get stiff otherwise."

Javert grumbled, "I think I'm stiff already," but he rocked forward and got slowly to his feet. Something popped as he moved, and he had to concede that Valjean was right. Every muscle in his body ached.

"Damn," he grunted, reaching his arms behind his head.

Valjean reached out a hand, and Javert helped pull him upright. Strangely, even when he was standing, Valjean did not pull away. He was close enough for Javert to hear his quiet breathing, and their hands were still clasped. Valjean just looked at him, and Javert felt suddenly very conscious of the way his pulse thrummed in his neck. That easy smile was still on Valjean's face, and Javert was compelled to look away.

"Did we ever try that other door?" Javert asked, breaking the stretch of silence.

Valjean craned his neck to look, finally taking his hand away. "I did not," he replied.

Determined to distract himself, though from what he could not say, Javert paced over to the cell block door. Trying the handle, he found it locked. He took out his wand habitually, and then remembered its state.

"Alohomora," he attempted anyway. Unsurprisingly, it did nothing.

"Alohomora! Reducto! Bombarda!" With increasing vexation, Javert tried to get some kind of reaction, any kind, out of the damaged wood. It remained cold and lifeless between his fingers.

A hand touched his shoulder.

"It's locked, Javert," Valjean said. "We will just have to look for another way out."

Taking a calming breath, Javert returned his wand to the pocket within his robes. "We need a plan," he pronounced. "When they come for me, you must use their distraction to try and sneak your way out, alright?"

Valjean hummed but did not reply. He returned to where their place by the wall, and a moment later, Javert joined him.

Valjean's presence was a warm mass in the darkness, one which did not protest even when Javert pressed against his side. No matter the lack of propriety, all the decorum in the world would not help him, and anyway, Valjean seemed unopposed to the Auror's touch.

Over and over again, Javert thought to himself that Valjean had to escape no matter what. He also told himself that this was so that Valjean could warn the Premier Ministre; if there was another motivation, he did not dare examine it.

The passage of minutes into hours was impossible to mark. For a time, Javert tried counting the seconds in his head, but that quickly became tedious. Valjean did not return to sleep, but neither did he speak. Javert supposed he had to be used to sitting, waiting, in a dark cell. That thought came with less of his usual irony, and more of something like sadness.

When at last he heard the creak of the door at the top of the stairs, Javert found that whatever fear he felt had been usurped by acceptance.

"Valjean," he whispered quietly, "hide in the shadows by the steps - be on the lookout for any opportunity to run, you understand?"

"Javert -"

"Go," he hissed, as a woman's laughter echoed in the stairwell. "You know it is me they care most about, do not lose that advantage."

Valjean could only be described as looking miserable, but he squeezed Javert's shoulder once and then crawled off into the dark as he was bid. Javert allowed himself a single, self-satisfied smile. Valjean would be safe, and Javert's death would be avenged. It was a good plan.

Bellatrix skated around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, alight with a wicked enthusiasm.

"Oh Inspecteur," she called out, a twisted girlishness in the way she spoke. "Where are you hiding? Periculum."

A shower of sparks flared to life and hovered near the ceiling, illuminating the room like reddish lightning beetles. The light was enough to see clearly Bellatrix, and behind her Rodolphus. Valjean he could make out as well, standing still as a statue next to the stairs. Neither of the Lestranges had noticed him yet, and Javert meant to keep it that way.

Getting to his feet, he crossed to stand where he could look Bellatrix in the eye.

"So you are the infamous Madame Lestrange," the Auror said. "Your French is passable, for an English woman."

Bellatrix laughed again at that; it was a cold, mirthless sound that made one's hair stand on end.

"You hear that?" she asked, turning to her husband. "It is as you said, the man does not frighten!" Almost gleefully, she turned back and curtsied. "My lineage is of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black - perhaps you have heard of it?"

Javert scoffed. "I have priorities higher than learning the titles of Englishmen. I have not heard of it, nor do I care to."

Bellatrix's laughter turned into a shriek. "How dare you speak to a Pureblood that way? You will learn respect, Auror. Imperio!"

At once, Javert's mind went blank. It was a pleasant feeling - in fact, it was perhaps the most pleasant he had ever felt. A passing fancy suggested he should kneel, which was curious, but now that he thought about it, Javert found he could think of nothing that sounded more enjoyable than kneeling. His legs folded beneath him, and he decided it was the best idea he had ever had.

A minute passed, and then Javert's awareness returned to find him kneeling on the stone floor as the dungeon rang with laughter. A humiliated flush rose up his neck, and Javert scrambled back to his feet.

Bellatrix glanced at her husband. "Would you care to do the honors, love?"

Rodolphus motioned her forward. "I gave him an appetizer this morning. Finish him for the Dark Lord, dearest."

Javert backed away warily as Bellatrix approached him. Beyond her, Valjean was still taking cover next to the stairs - he needed to move! Perhaps he was worried the Death Eaters would notice him trying to escape. Javert locked eyes with Bellatrix and knew he was about to have her complete attention. If ever there was a time for Valjean to go, this was it.

Bellatrix raised her wand, a warped walnut branch, and said, "Crucio!"

Knowing what to expect did not make it any easier to bear. The spell tore at his insides and set his flesh on fire with pain. Javert did not feel it as he hit the ground; if he had been capable of thought, he would have said it was impossible to feel anything more than what the curse inflicted. His throat felt raw with crying out, but he could not stop, could not do anything besides twist blindly in the curse's grip.

Bellatrix lifted her wand, and all at once Javert could breathe again. He gulped for air, ears ringing, even as the witch considered him like a bug she meant to crush.

"I met a man once by the surname Javert," she said conversationally. "They put him in Azkaban. Any relation?"

Javert tensed, but was unable to answer. The harshness of his breathing was his only reply.

"Stings a bit, doesn't it?" the witch commented. "Perhaps you need another taste?" She waited as though expecting Javert to beg for mercy, and looked almost put out when he did not.

"Crucio," she snapped.

Javert's back arched as though he had been electrocuted. All presence of mind vanished, and his fingernails scrabbled at the floor as he tried in vain to get away. He tasted salt, and Javert discovered tears streaming down the side of his face. The pain was unending, and always fresh. Unlike a wound, magic did not dull with time.

Javert was slipping away. He could not breathe, and his lungs burned for want of air. His own screaming would asphyxiate him as certainly as if he had drowned. The notion of death offered some small comfort, and he prayed it came soon, even as he prayed Valjean had broken free.

Distantly, Javert heard a shout. All at once, the spell ended, and Javert gasped. He had almost forgotten what it was like to feel anything other than pain. Darkness danced at the corners of his vision; he might have welcomed unconsciousness, had he not then heard Valjean's voice.

"Cowards!"

Struggling to focus, Javert lifted his head to see Bellatrix with her back to him, staring at Valjean. No longer crouching in the shadows, Valjean stood facing their captors with his head held high. Javert was confused, as well as a little angry. What was Valjean still doing there?

"In a fair fight, you would never stand a chance," Valjean went on. "You can torture us, even kill us, but it won't matter - you will not succeed in killing the Premier Ministre."

Rodolphus' eyebrows twitched in surprise and Valjean smirked.

"Thought we didn't know?" he asked. "Well, we do - we know a lot more than you might think. For instance, that not all of your double agents are as loyal to you as you may wish."

He was bluffing, Javert realized. Valjean was feeding the Death Eaters lies masked by a fragment of truth, but for what purpose?

"Is that so?" said Rodolphus. His expression bespoke boredom, but his voice betrayed a note of concern. "Perhaps you would like to tell us more about that."

"You will only kill me afterward," countered Valjean. "So no, I think I would not."

"Half-blood scum," Bellatrix hissed. "We will get it out of you one way or another." She raised her wand, and Javert tried to call out a warning, only to find his throat too sore for speech. "Incarcerous!"

Valjean did not fight the ropes which appeared out of thin air to bind him. Instead, he looked past Bellatrix to where Javert lay in a heap and met his eyes, his expression apologetic. He held Javert's gaze even as Bellatrix grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged him toward the staircase.

Understanding struck the Auror like lightning. He tried to get to his feet, tried to tell Valjean he was not going to be a martyr on Javert's behalf, but even the effort of pushing himself up on his elbows was too much. Javert could do nothing but mouth Valjean's name as he was taken away.

Above him, the door slammed shut and he despaired. Rolling onto his stomach, Javert buried his face in his arms. He had been granted a stay of execution, but only because Valjean was willing to pay the price.