A/N - This was originally going to be one chapter, but it grew really, really long, and has thus been split into two. It's for a good cause, I assure you. Now, on to the story!
Snow swirled outside the window pane, weaving patterns of white lace against the night. Minerva's breath left clouds on the glass, the wind's chill seeping in beneath the edge of the window sill. Warmth spread from the room behind her though, where the party continued and the sound of laughter filled the air. The children had probably gathered around the tree now, eyes bright and begging for stories of Father Christmas. Twinkling Muggle lights adorned the walls, mingling with garland and tinsel and of course, an enormous tree. The piano in the corner would be put to use shortly, and the fireplace held a roaring fire, stockings hanging from the mantle above.
Given her rather severe punishment concerning the "sneaking away to London" matter, Minerva had been surprised to even be allowed out of the house for the party. Then again, her father insisted on attending every year, and he knew how much Minerva enjoyed his friends, a bunch of Muggle professors who told fascinating, if not outlandish, stories. Perhaps he had been able to persuade her mother to allow the trip, for which Minerva was rather grateful. She had been going slowly mad in the house, and besides, she could never recall a Christmas without the Inklings.
How precisely her father had met the professors had never been fully explained, but Minerva liked to imagine that the encounter had taken place at some dusty old bookshop. Magic must have been involved, because all the adults seemed to be aware that the McGonagalls were wizards, though they seldom mentioned the subject. Whenever an ornament fell from the tree and met an unfortunate end, or someone spilled their drink on the rug, no one paid any mind if the damage fixed itself.
As much as she loved the parties, as happy as she was to be free of the house, Minerva could not quite summon up a very festive mood. She had excused herself to the library, to think in private, having never wanted more to be someplace else. Her fingers strayed to the locket, wishing for the millionth time that Alastor had not stayed at school for the holidays, or else, that she could have stayed with him. He had just begun to cheer up, and she worried that so much time all but alone in the castle might push him back into that angry, melancholy state.
"I believe you've wandered into the wrong room," a voice said behind her, "It seems terribly quiet in here. Nor do there appear to be decorations."
That observation was note entirely true, because someone had attempted to weave garland around the shelves, the effort abandoned halfway around the room. Still, Minerva recognized the voice, smiling as she turned to find Mr. Tolkien standing in the doorway. An older man, white-haired and with crinkled lines around his eyes, Mr. Tolkien had always been what Minerva imagined all Muggle professors must look like. She had never properly understood what he was a professor of - something about English and maybe language as well. That seemed silly though, because unless the Muggles spoke something else they ought to already know English, but Minerva had been careful never to point this observation out. Currently Mr. Tolkien held his pipe in one hand, the other in the pocket of his tweed jacket as he watched her from the doorway.
"I always seem to wind up in the room with all the books," Minerva pointed out.
"Now that would be true," Mr. Tolkien agreed.
He pressed his hand against a switch on the wall, dim light flickering to fill several glass bulbs on the ceiling. Three of the four walls were hidden by bookshelves that sagged under their heavy load, and the fourth wall was only free thanks to the long window. The desk wedged in one corner held only more books, and various piles of manuscripts towered atop the carpet. Minerva had long since decided that whenever she grew up and owned a house, she would have a room just like this one.
"Now, is there a reason you're hiding in the library?" Mr. Tolkien asked.
"I wasn't hiding," Minerva insisted, although technically, she was. "I was just...thinking."
"And does your thinking have anything to do with that necklace?" Mr. Tolkien asked. "Which, by the way, will tarnish if you keep doing that."
Minerva had not realized that her hands had strayed to the locket again and she froze instantly, blushing.
"Mother told me the same thing."
"Oddly enough, she might be right," Mr. Tolkien said with a wink. "Might I ask who it's from?"
"A...a friend of mine," Minerva replied. Honestly she and Alastor were more than friends, that much had been clarified quite effectively the night he had given her the locket. But she had not so much as told her sister about that, much less her parents. Telling Mr. Tolkien first seemed like going woefully out of order.
"I'm going to guess," Mr. Tolkien paused, taking a draw from his pipe, "that it was a gift from the young man you slipped away to London to visit."
"How did you-" Minerva started to ask, then stopped herself, because her parents must have passed the story among the partygoers. How very kind of them. "Yes...yes it is."
"Pity you didn't bring him along," Mr. Tolkien said. "I'd very much have liked to meet him."
"He's stayed at school," Minerva murmured. "I wish he hadn't."
Mr. Tolkien seemed to understand, more or less, that this was why Minerva had slipped away from the party. He took another draw from his pipe, watching her for a moment as if considering his thoughts.
"I suspect...that he wouldn't want you to spend your Christmas worrying over him. What do you think?"
Minerva tried to imagine Alastor's reaction to discovering that she had to this point spent a good portion of her holidays waiting to go back to school. Not that she had had much else to do in the confines of her room, but still.
"No, he probably wouldn't."
"There you have it then," Mr. Tolkien said, smiling. "You're simply obliged to have a good Christmas."
Minerva smiled, and would have answered had a burst of laughter from the next room not drawn their attention. The laughter was followed by the chime of piano keys, playing no particular tune, not yet at least.
"I expect we'd better get back, before Jack gets carried away with the carols," Mr. Tolkien said with a sigh.
"I expect so," Minerva agreed.
"Not to mention, I believe you owe me a story or two," Mr. Tolkien reminded her.
"Only if you give me a few of your own," Minerva said. "As usual."
"Fair enough, I suppose."
Mr. Tolkien led the way, pressing his hand to the switch again and vanishing the lights. Minerva hesitated just a moment before crossing into the next room, casting one last glance toward the window. Alastor would be fine, and he would have a good Christmas, and she would see him again soon. She repeated the phrase to herself a time or two, then went to join the rest of the party, holding tight to the locket all the while.
He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. There had been a corridor, blackness and agony, cold voices in the dark, but now Minerva leaned over him, just out of reach, blurred around the edges. She frowned worriedly, and she might have been saying something, but Alastor could not seem to properly hear. Ignoring his outstretched hand, Minerva reached past to touch his face, gentle and warm. A light glowed behind her, shining off her glasses, bright after so long in the darkness and so dazzling that it made his head ache. Not the greatest dream he had ever had, but it definitely made the top five, given the circumstances.
"S-sorry...I'm sorry about..." Alastor began to apologize, not entirely sure why but feeling as though he ought to, given the state of him. After all, Minerva had never been too pleased to find him injured after a fight.
"Everything will be fine," she said, voice more clear now but still sounding very far away.
Alastor could not honestly say that he believed that, but he knew better than to argue when Minerva had that look on her face.
"Sure," he mumbled. "Course it will."
If she picked up the doubts in his tone, she made no comment. She simply smiled, her hand moving now, two fingers pressed against his chest. The contact burned peculiarly, drawing Alastor out of the haze, making the world, for a brief, instant, startlingly clear.
"You have to wake up now," Minerva said.
"Rather not, if you don't mind," Alastor muttered.
He could not recall much of what had happened, but he had a rather good feeling that he had been hurt, badly. No reason to rush back to that sort of thing, not when he could just as easily wait here with Minerva.
"Alastor, you've got to wake up."
Before any further protest could be made, Minerva flickered and vanished, much to Alastor's dismay. He was not left alone long, however, because another, taller shadow formed up in front of the light. Blurry at first, the shape solidified into a man in military robes, wearing a crooked smile on a painfully familiar face.
"Da," Alastor said hoarsely, breath catching in his throat.
"Fight's not over yet. What you doing sleeping?" his father asked.
"Wasn't...I didn't..." Alastor could not quite manage to respond. He was torn between being shocked to his see his father, and embarrassed at being seen like this.
"Up you go then," his father said, reaching down and waiting.
Alastor hesitated only a moment, nodding determinedly and swinging his good arm up to take his father's hand.
"Good man."
Adrian Moody grinned broadly and tugged, pulling Alastor upward. The light grew brighter, utterly blinding, and his father vanished like a shadow in the noonday sun.
Alastor opened his eyes, drawing a sharp breath and awake once more. The first thing that hit him was the awful, bone-deep ache that covered him from head to toe. The second thing was the awful, biting pain that throbbed in a few select areas. Merlin, but he must have taken a beating. He groaned, leaning back against what felt like a wall and pressing his hands against his face. Well, pressing one hand to his face anyway. The other did not seem to want to respond. Rubbish.
Stretching out with his good arm, he could feel another wall nearby on his right, and he could almost reach a third wall on his left, fingertips brushing against stone. Probably a broom cupboard, then, given the space. At least nothing had fallen on his head. Yet. A tiny sliver of light glowed beneath what he guessed to be the door, barely enough to see by but still better than being in pitch darkness. If he sat quite still, he could make out the outline of his feet and hand. He patted down his pockets, finding his wand definitely gone, much to his disappointment. Alastor slid forward until his foot connected with the solid mass above the line of light, what he hoped was the door at least as he delivered a solid kick. The hinges rattled but did not give, and the impact sent an unpleasant jolt up his leg. The movement also jolted his sore and battered muscles, and the steady ache began to become a sharp, definite pain that made even breathing hurt. Without his wand, he had no hope of getting out, not in his present condition. That thought angered him, because he should not have been taken so easily, should never have trusted Avery. Not to mention he should have told Tiberius to mind his own bloody business, and ought to have beaten Riddle when he had the chance weeks ago. Really Alastor was simply furious at anyone and everyone he could think of, himself most of all.
Intending to climb to his feet, because really this was just ridiculous and he could get out of this blasted cupboard on his own, Alastor braced his hands against the floor and pushed. The dull throb coming from his left arm immediately exploded, daggers shooting from his shoulder all the way to his fingertips. The awful, blinding intensity left him gasping, waiting for the moment to pass. Eventually, what felt like ages later, the pain began to subside, and Alastor released a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Moving slowly so as not to jar his arm again, Alastor gingerly pressed along his left hand, searching for whatever had been injured so badly. The hand itself felt rather bruised, and he recalled someone stomping on his fingers, but nothing seemed to be broken. Likewise his forearm and elbow seemed to be in one piece, though his elbow had gone rather stiff and straightened only grudgingly and with great effort. As his fingers reached his shoulder, however, Alastor shuddered involuntarily. Even the lightest touch stung and threatened to unleash another round of horrible pain. Alastor could not see the injury in the darkness, but the joint felt swollen and all wrong, probably out of place. Spectacular.
Letting his head fall back against the wall, gently to keep from moving his shoulder, Alastor tried to recall precisely how he had ended up locked in the cupboard. Bits and pieces hung fragmented in his mind, a snapshot of Avery's smirk, of the all-consuming darkness, footsteps and echoes and pain. There had been a fight, or more accurately, a trap. Alastor would not give the scene in the corridor the dignity of being called a fight. Up until the Cruciatus everything remained quite clear, down the to distorted voices and the slow, taunting clapping. Of course, after the spell had brought him down, everything went a bit hazy. His shoulder had likely been dislocated then, and his wand taken. There might have been another Crucio, or maybe two, because everything after that blurred together in agony and fire.
Merlin, but Tiberius would never let him hear the end of this. Everything should have been straightforward and simple - sneak into the Slytherin common room, find Tom, teach him a rather memorable lesson, and escape. At no point had he considered that Avery might turn traitor, but that was simply one more person to add to the list of those with whom he needed to have a serious conversation. Even having been in total darkness, Alastor would have sworn Riddle was the ringleader. Considering the extra precaution they had taken with the charmed voices, he would have some trouble proving his theory.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and Alastor stiffened, holding his breath. They had come back to finish the job, beat him around some more, or at least try to do so. With any luck, they would not be expecting him to have woken, and perhaps he could surprise them. He had no wand of course, and with a dislocated shoulder he could not do much, but perhaps he could buy himself some time. There was no telling how long he had been gone, or how long he had been unconscious for that matter, and he had a feeling that he was quite alone in the dungeons.
With great effort, he managed to stand upright, pulling himself up along the wall with his good hand. By the end he was sweating and shaking, breathing heavily and braced against the wall because his legs did not quite want to take his weight. The footsteps grew louder, voices joining in now, and Alastor felt around in the darkness, pleased to discover a mop propped in the corner. He might be wandless, but at least he had some semblance of a weapon.
The lock clicked, and the voices hushed as the door began to creep open. Before the light could blind him or any spells could stop him, Alastor dove forward, leading with his good shoulder. He hit the door and knocked it fully open, tumbling out of the cupboard and swinging the mop as he fell. Some part of him noted rather dryly that he probably looked completely ridiculous, but that suggestion was ignored as first the mop, then Alastor himself, collided with whoever had been standing just outside. Shouting ensued, followed by a bang as the door struck the wall and another heavy thud as Alastor landed on the floor. Rolling mid-fall had seemed like a good tactic at the time, until the back of his head connected with the ground, hard enough to send the room tilting sideways.
The general plan had reached its limit, as Alastor had not really decided on what to do if he actually succeeded in taking down one of the attackers. His decision-making also happened to be slightly delayed by the dizziness that had swept over him and the more than slight discomfort his shoulder seemed to be experiencing. He knew he ought to get up, get moving, but all he could manage was lying still and waiting for the world to stop spinning, or at least stop being so blurry.
Two figures leaned over him, and as the mop seemed to have been released, Alastor swung with his good arm instead, hoping to hit anything within range. Bring one of them down, maybe catch them both off guard, and then he could figure out the rest from there. The punch connected, not with enough force to do any real damage, in Alastor's opinion, but hard enough to send one of them staggering away. The one he had not hit, however, took the opportunity to seize Alastor by the shirt and drag him backwards. He had been in pain before, but all at once his shoulder was agony, and the rest of him hurt fairly badly besides. Struggling in vain to release himself, Alastor resisted the pull until a rather familiar voice spoke up.
"Stop! He ist injured!"
The moving did indeed stop abruptly, and Josiah Goldstein stepped into his view. His glasses had fallen off, and he looked much younger without them.
"He ist badly injured," Josiah repeated, kneeling down.
Joshua appeared then, having apparently been the person dragging him backwards. He seemed to be apologizing, or at least Alastor sincerely hoped he was apologizing.
"Fine," Alastor muttered through gritted teeth. "Just...fine."
He tried to push himself upright, but only reached a sitting position before the Goldsteins stopped him.
"Ve are trying to help!" Josiah insisted. "Bitte, sit still!"
Alastor understood enough of the reply that he quit trying to stand. Which was just as well, really, because he had a feeling he would not manage to stay standing for long just now anyway.
"How...I thought you'd have..." Alastor tried to order his thoughts, but Josiah had started some sort of healing spells on his ribs that burned in a rather distracting sort of way. Joshua looked mildly offended by Alastor's partial statement, muttering something that sounded less than polite.
"Ve vould not haf left," Josiah said quietly. "Ve began to vorry."
"Well, I did end up in a closet," Alastor growled.
"Silencing spells," Josiah declared. "They kept us from hearing."
"Fair enough," Alastor allowed, biting back a hiss of pain as Josiah poked at his shoulder. "How long's it been then?"
Joshua answered this time, speaking rapidly and adding in a few hand motions. He wore a vicious sort of smile, and seemed to be gesturing to something further on down the hall. Alastor leaned back as far as he dared to see the tall form of Hagrid standing over several black shapes that blurred with the shadows.
"Ve came looking," Josiah explained. "You vere gone, und das corridor vas empty. But, a few of them had stayed. Ve...talked mit them. Did not go so vell. Ve vere going to put them in das closet, but...you vere already there."
Alastor was not entirely sure if he should be irked by the fact that he had been found accidentally, or if he should just be happy to have been found at all. Joshua had waved Hagrid over now, and the towering third-year dragged three black-robed figures behind him. One wore rather bright orange stripes across his skin, the other blue spots, and the third's front teeth had grown exceptionally long, almost down to his chin.
"Thanks, then," Alastor said, watching the odd procession and making note to keep the Goldsteins on his side.
Josiah merely nodded, but Joshua grinned proudly, drawing a wand from his back pocket. A wand Alastor recognized and was thrilled to see again.
"They also had your vand," Josiah said as Joshua placed the wand beside Alastor's good hand. "Ve thought you might vant das."
"I did, yeah," Alastor agreed, fingers pressed against his wand. Despite the fact that he was still beaten and bruised and sore, there was an odd comfort in knowing that he at least had his wand once again.
Hagrid pulled the figures past and dumped them all unceremoniously in the closet.
"Yeh alright then?" Hagrid asked, finished with his task.
"Fine," Alastor repeated, earning a reproving look from Josiah.
"His shoulder ist out of place. He needs to go to das hospital."
Alastor would have argued against this anyway, because Madame Hewitt would not be entirely pleased to see him in this state, but he was saved the effort by the sound of voices floating along the corridor. All four boys fell immediately silent, listening intently. In the maze of corridors within the dungeon, it would impossible to tell where the noise had come from, but Alastor would have sworn they were nearby. His companions seemed to share this theory, keeping a watchful eye on the opening at the end of the hall, the only way out. The voices began to draw closer, laughter joining in the noise now, and Alastor tried very hard not to be irritated over the fact that they seemed to be trapped once again. Perhaps he should have just stayed in the cupboard.
I do not, for the record, own Mr. Tolkien, Jack, or the Inklings collectively. But I do sincerely enjoy getting to make all these historical references. On an unrelated note - looks like the boys seems to be in a slight predicament. Have thoughts, opinions, witty comments, or a strong desire to know what happens next? There's a reviews button for that. ;)