Chapter Twenty: Constant Vigilance
The 2,374th Day: May 15, 1988
Dumbledore's ascension to the top spot at the Ministry really was the first ray of light in the darkness. Almost immediately, he acted to calm the public hysteria, passing sensible laws and assembling a team of solid witches and wizards to run the government's administration. Together with the Order of the Phoenix—still the shadowy arm that acted to undermine Voldemort on less official fronts—the Ministry finally seemed to regain some of the momentum in the fight against darkness. And little by slowly, the Wizarding World's confidence in the Ministry was restored, while Dumbledore was hailed as a hero.
No one ever asked why he chose to remain on the sidelines for so long, and the one old friend who would have had the chutzpah to throw his own cowardice in his face was too busy laughing.
"These fools worship you," Grindelwald chuckled as Dumbledore stepped into Pendulum Games one beautiful spring morning fourteen months after taking office. "Did you see today's headlines?"
Albus ignored the brandished copy of the Daily Prophet; he'd come to spend some much-needed time away, not to face that. The hero-worship had been bad enough during his years at Hogwarts, but at least there he had felt that he had a solid grasp on his own baser tendencies. Albus had never felt more like a spider at the center of its web than he did as Minister of Magic…and worse yet, he was beginning to like it. To relish the power he held.
He shivered. "I don't want to hear it, Gellert," he snapped.
"Ahhh. Enjoying yourself a bit much, are we?" his old friend asked perceptively, leading him to the back of the room where a familiar chess board waited. "Does it make you wish for the old days, Albus?"
"I am not what they think I am!" the words burst out of him without warning.
"No. You're so much more."
The frank response made him glower, but Grindelwald's answering smile was almost gentle.
"It's your move," the reformed (?) dark wizard said softly. It wasn't an apology, but Dumbledore knew from long experience that it was probably the best Gellert would offer.
"So it is," he sighed, reaching for the board.
They spoke no more of power, and Albus spent the evening with his old friend, relishing the opportunity to relax. Months had passed since he'd dared get away from the Ministry for something so minor as his own relaxation, and Dumbledore found himself reveling in the experience. Ever since taking office, he had not dared to let his guard down anywhere but here—Pendulum Games was the only place Albus could be certain that Voldemort would never follow him, because there was no Dark Lord in history foolish enough to take on the combination of Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
"It's almost eerily quiet," Gellert said after an early dinner they had picked up from the Muggle pub around the corner. (Snobbish though he was, Gellert had always had a weakness for Muggle food, and had never been much of a cook).
"I'm not certain I would agree," Albus countered. "Are you buy chance forgetting the attack on Nurmengard, that disastrous Death Eater attack on the STV main office, the murders of all those Muggles in Ottery St. Catchpole, or—"
Grindelwald waved a hand to stop him. "You need not go on, Albus. You've just proved my point, actually."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You just named the biggest three events of the last year, and they weren't very big at all."
"Hundreds of Muggles died at—" he started to protest hotly, and then stopped himself.
"Precisely. Think, Albus."
His mind whirled through the particulars quickly enough, and Dumbledore did not like the conclusion he came to. The world had been too quiet. Voldemort's followers had been active, but not nearly so much as they had before Dumbledore came to office—and Albus was not so foolish to think that his own reputation was quite that awe-inspiring. It took all of his self-control not to scowl.
As usual, Grindelwald was right.
"What are you suggesting?" he asked after a long moment of silence.
"Nothing, at the moment," was the unhappy response, and part of Albus rejoiced to see that his old friend actually did care about the war and about the fate of the world. But Gellert's next comment was supremely dispassionate: "Tom is not a patient sort by nature, so he must be playing at something, Albus. Figure out what, and you'll finally get ahead of him."
"You sound certain that we are not ahead of him," Dumbledore couldn't help saying.
The look Grindelwald gave him was scornful. "Please tell me that you do not actually believe that drivel you have just sprouted."
That made him sigh. "Not particularly."
"Good. I was beginning to wonder if you had truly become a politician!" Suddenly, the laugh was back, as was his friend's cheerful demeanor. Dumbledore, however, could only roll his eyes.
"Then what tune do you believe I am dancing to, Gellert?" he asked tiredly.
The other wizard snorted. "Oh, I don't believe I'm going to do your dirty work for you this time, Albus."
"That means you don't know."
"I haven't the faintest," Grindelwald admitted with a shrug.
Their eyes met, and understanding flashed between them. No, Grindelwald would never come fully in on the side of the "light", but he was worried enough to offer advice, at least—and well-meaning advice, at that. Dumbledore would never sink so far as to offer Gellert the partnership they had both once burned for, but there were times he was almost tempted—
Don't think it, Albus. Not even for a moment.
With an effort, he turned his mind back to the chess game, certain that at least tonight would be quiet.
Six years, six months, and one day. Bellatrix had told him how long it had been that morning, in between beatings. Or had it been whippings? After a half dozen hours with only Dementors for company, Sirius simply couldn't remember.
Nor did he want to, really.
How had he wound up in an interrogation chair? The last he remembered, he had been locked in his cell with a trio of Dementors, listening to Bellatrix and Rodolphus exchange witty remarks concerning his pitiful reactions. Sirius was only half-aware of their presence, but knowing they were there was the only thing that kept him from losing himself and transforming into Padfoot for his sanity's sake. But Sirius was still rational enough to know that if he showed his Animagus form, he would give up the only advantage he had…and he was not quite so broken that he was prepared to do that.
There were days, however, that he started to wonder. Days where he worried about what happened in those sessions he could not remember, what the snippets of spells he heard in his nightmares meant—
"Are you drifting away on me so quickly?" the coldly familiar voice asked, jarring Sirius out of his drunken reverie.
He blinked slowly, painfully, trying to clear his vision. When Voldemort came into focus, the edges of his form were fuzzy and his image had a tendency to jump around. The dizziness was nothing new, of course—it had been his constant companion for the last two thousand, three hundred, and seventy-four days—but Sirius still hated it. Hated feeling helpless.
His desire to escape that was one of the main reasons he kept daring Voldemort to kill him…and more than half hoping that the Dark Lord would do it.
"Don't…get your hopes up," he wheezed, trying a cheeky smile on for size. But he didn't really feel cheeky, didn't really feel anything. Six hours of Poenatoxicum had wrung all the strength out of him, and Sirius was having trouble caring. At any rate, the expression surfaced as a grimace of pain, but at least it got the point across.
"Ah, but I would be terribly disappointed if you left," Voldemort countered him softly. Dangerously.
Sirius snorted, glad that it sprayed blood and yet disappointed that none of it got far enough to hit Voldemort. He would have liked to stain those expensively tailored robes. "Can't have that…now, can we?"
The Dark Lord chuckled. "No. We certainly cannot."
Sirius shivered. If Voldemort was agreeing with him, things were about to go very badly. Voldemort never agreed with him, and it was all Sirius could do to fight back the overpowering urge to just give in. Give up. Tell him whatever he wanted to know, give up whatever the Dark Lord wanted him to give, and just end it. He could do it, Sirius knew, could give in and still be safe in the knowledge that the Fidelius Charm had to have expired by now and James, Lily, and Harry were safe—
"I have a gift for you, Sirius," Voldemort interrupted his thoughts.
"Sorry if I'm not properly grateful," he quipped.
Suddenly, Voldemort leaned down to look in his eyes, close enough that even Sirius' dizzy mind had to focus on him. For a long moment, nothing save those red eyes filled his vision, and uncontrollable shivers started running down his spine. Why was it that he suddenly now noticed how hard breathing could be?
Everything hurt.
"I am not looking for your gratitude, Sirius, although there are times you require reminding how grateful you should be that you retain your life."
"Ha." Agony welled up in his throat, bubbling over into a bloody cough. "I'm the one…who keeps telling you to kill me, y'know."
A cold smile. "I do find it interesting that you have begun to wish for death. Have you started to wonder what comes next, my friend? When the day comes where you truly understand that I am not going to kill you, and you must deal with the consequences?"
"If I'm not livin' those consequences now, you could've fooled me," Sirius wheezed, more out of habit than anything else. The words fell flat, anyway, lacking any sort of defiance.
Soft laughter was the only answer, and after a moment of glaring back into those haughty red eyes, Sirius had to look away. He hated to do it, to admit defeat like that…but he felt so damn empty. So lost. He'd never admit it, but what Voldemort said rang far too true. What next? If the Dark Lord would not let him die, what then? He shivered convulsively, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
"Everyone breaks, Sirius," Voldemort had said to him six and a half years ago. "It is only a matter of time and method."
No. He would not think like that now.
He would not.
"Bring it in," Voldemort finally ordered, and the interrogation room doors slid open to reveal Bellatrix Lestrange. The chains were too tight to allow Sirius to turn his head far—and the red-hot metal dug into his throat when he tried—but he thought he could make out a box in her hands. His vision wasn't what it used to be, hadn't been in years. Everything was blurry and grimy, and sometimes he wondered if he wasn't winding up like James and needing glasses. But he could see well enough as Bellatrix danced her way up to him, prancing like a schoolgirl.
She giggled, patting his cheek as she dropped the box into Sirius' lap. The soft touch made him moan, which in turn made Bellatrix bounce up and down on her toes in excitement. She turned a sunny smile on Voldemort, and it made Sirius' stomach turn. "He has no idea, My Lord."
"Indeed he does not." The voice was cool, but the slight smile was almost…indulgent.
Sirius felt sick, and he didn't think it was from the horrid smell waffling its way up to his nostrils. His stomach rolled again, rebelling against both the smell and the constant influx of spells and potions. Sirius didn't remember a time when he hadn't felt nauseous, hadn't felt sick with hunger and with pain, but it had just become a part of his life, now, and he just wanted to drift off.
Sod Voldemort's so-called gift. He didn't really give a damn, and he wasn't curious. Given that Bellatrix was around, he wouldn't' have much time before someone started laying curses into him, so Sirius would take the break he had while he had it. Ignoring the Dark Lord's patient expression, he let his eyes slide shut once more.
Bellatrix's pouting voice drifted down to him: "Poor little Sirius doesn't want to play, Master." She giggled. "Someone should tell him that only good boys get gifts."
Go to hell, Trixie, he thought in her direction, lacking the motivation to even voice the insult aloud. He was so tired, so damn drained; Sirius only wanted to tune them out and sleep.
"Cruico."
The curse came from Voldemort, smooth and utterly lacking in malice, but it made Sirius scream weakly and writhe in pain as far as the chains would allow him to. When the Dark Lord flicked his wand aside a moment later, Sirius was left shuddering and shaking, his eyes still shut as he coughed his way into breathing somewhat regularly. His chest was burning, and the room was spinning even when he couldn't see; Sirius felt like he had gotten stuck on a Muggle tilt-a-whirl. For a moment, he hoped he might throw up all over Voldemort, but Sirius lacked the motivation to be that obnoxious. The damn box was still sitting on his lap.
No, he wasn't that out of it, yet.
"I have a present for you, Sirius," the cold voice said for a second time, a bit less patiently than the first.
Sirius cracked his eyes open slowly, wondering all the while why he even bothered. It wasn't curiosity, not really, anyway. Maybe it was just an inner wish to be free of the pain for however few seconds it took Voldemort to show him whatever it was.
Slowly, the Dark Lord came back into focus.
"Recognize this?"
Something dangled in front of his eyes: a vaguely round shape, with something blurry on the top and blood dripping from the bottom. Some of the blood splashed onto Sirius' chest, but he was beyond caring. It simply mixed with his own, blending in immediately. He squinted tiredly as Voldemort jiggled the object, and then jerked back in surprise when he realized what it was. The live eye was sightless, but the magical one still rolled wildly, seemingly trying to search out an enemy and only finding Sirius.
"Oh, yes. Remember this day, my friend." The cold voice was impossibly soft. "May 15th, 1988. The day Alastor Moody met his end."
Sirius could only stare despairingly.
They never found the body.
The next morning, Moody simply did not show up for work. Usually obsessively early, Moody was prone to bouts of hard drinking after particularly bad days, so no one really thought much of it when he hadn't shown up in the Auror Division headquarters by nine o'clock, but when lunch rolled around, Arabella started to get visibly worried. James talked her out of going alone, only to wind up accompanying her to Moody's small flat. For good measure, they brought Charlie Weasley along—even though he was just about ready to be turned loose, he was still technically James' student—and the threesome spent a good five minutes standing on Moody's doorstep before venturing inside.
Thankfully, Arabella knew the key to dismantle the eighteen different layers of wards on the door, which saved them several hours of slogging through twenty years' worth of spells in order to get inside. Even then, it took almost another fifteen minutes to actually open the doors because everything had to be done in a very particular order—depending upon which day of the week it was, of course.
"He takes being paranoid a bit far, doesn't he, boss?" Charlie asked as Arabella finally turned the doorknob.
James snorted, cracking his first smile of the morning. Figg's irritation had them all one edge, and as her immediate underling, James had borne the brunt of her worry. "Constant vigilance, and all," he quipped.
"Oh. Right. I'd forgotten." His student chuckled quietly, earning the pair of them a glare from Figg.
"Come on, you two. Stop acting like adolescents sneaking around after hours and do your damned jobs," the senior Auror snapped.
James blinked. He hadn't heard 'Bella so worried since—well, he couldn't remember when something had rattled her so badly. It's not like this'll be the first time some Aurors have had to come out here to drag Moody out of bed and out of a drunken stupor, so why the tension? he didn't ask. He'd known Arabella a long time, and could read from her body language that she was well and truly concerned, which meant he only pulled his wand out and fanned to the right as they stepped into the flat. Charlie headed left, with Figg going up the center, and all three of them cast diagnostic spells immediately.
Nothing.
"Alastor?" Arabella called. "Get your bony arse out of bed and to work! I am not being paid enough to do your damn job at the Ministry, and you missed a meeting with Crouch this morning!"
Moody had been the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement ever since Dumbledore had ascended to the top spot and brought Barty Crouch, Senior, in as his Deputy Minister of Magic, but the irascible former head of the DMLE was still Moody's immediate superior, much to everyone's displeasure. And everyone knew that Arabella liked Crouch even less than Moody did, so if she'd had to meet with him in Moody's stead, that explained her sour mood.
"Alastor!" she bellowed furiously.
There was no answer.
James cast another diagnostic spell, but again got nothing in return. In fact, he was getting almost too much nothing—
"Something's wrong," Charlie breathed as Arabella used her wand to flick open the door to Moody's bedroom.
"You lazy son of a…"
The senior Auror trailed off into silence, staring. From his angle, James could not see the entirety of the bedroom, but he could see Moody's bed. Moody's immaculately madeand unoccupied bed. The bedroom was empty, too.
He could hear Charlie casting a life-form detecting spell with no results, but the pair of them still rushed to physically check every room in the small flat. But everything was neatly organized and empty. Completely lifeless. Perfect. Had Moody been this organized in his personal life? James didn't know, but he wouldn't have bet on it, having seen the state that the one-eyed wizard's desk was usually in.
Arabella met back up with him and Charlie in the living room, and her eyes were just a little bit wider than usual.
"He's gone," she stated flatly.
"We could have missed him," James countered without really meaning it, trying desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
But it was Charlie who shook his head. "No. Or—maybe we could have," he amended when Figg speared him with a look. "But something's too perfect here. I'm not the expert at traps and oddities, but something's not right here."
Judging from the pinched expression on Arabella's face, she agreed, and James opened his mouth to express some sort of sympathy—until she killed that urge with a glare. A moment of silence passed before their boss spoke again:
"Get Hoyt and the other Weasley out here, and have them go over the place with a fine-toothed comb," she ordered James. "I'll contact the Ministry and make sure that we didn't miss Alastor by some miracle. Weasley, you're the one whose instincts are lighting off, so start crawling around and see what you can find."
"Yes, Ma'am," James replied softly for the pair of them. He almost never called her that, but given how angry 'Bella was, it was probably a good idea.
She didn't answer, instead turning to Moody's fire to contact Crouch, which left James to Apparate back to Auror headquarters and fetch the others. Fortunately, neither Bill Weasley nor Francine Hoyt was out on a mission, which meant the trio was back in Moody's flat within five minutes, ready to join Charlie in his quest to find any clues of what had happened. After finishing up her fire call with Crouch, Arabella united her efforts with their own, but by then no one was terribly hopeful. If Moody wasn't at the Ministry, and he wasn't at home, there was only one other thing he might have been doing—and Alastor Moody was far too paranoid to meet up with any of his spies without having told at least Arabella where he was going.
Three hours of fruitless searching later, Bill Weasley found the Dark Mark burned into the hardwood floor in front of the couch, carefully covered by three different spells. Just looking at it made James feel sick.
"Why would they hide it?" Charlie asked quietly.
"Because Voldemort's a bastard, that's why," Arabella snapped. She was blinking back something that looked suspiciously like tears, but James would never call her on it.
"Maybe it's something else—" James started, only to have his old teacher cut him off with a glare.
"Don't be any stupider than you were born to be, Potter."
"Sorry." Damn, did that word feel inadequate.
"They fixed the flat, too," Francine said after another moment, gesturing at a rugged-looking green armchair. "This chair was in at least three different pieces, and was repaired recently. So was the table, though I think that was in four or five pieces, perhaps more. And someone put a silencing spell on the mirror."
"They what?" three different voices asked, but it was Arabella who un-silenced the mirror and asked for its story.
By then, no one was surprised. The only remaining question was why the Death Eaters accompanying Voldemort—because the mirror had been able to confirm that the Dark Lord himself had been present—had bothered to fix the damage the flat had suffered during the climactic battle, but the mirror was able to tell the rest of the sordid tale. Moody had fought for some while (how long they did not know, for even enchanted mirrors had no real concept of time, and she could not see the clock from her space on the wall), but he had fallen.
"I think he might have been breathing when they took him away, dearie," the brass-framed mirror told Arabella Figg in closing. "But mirrors aren't exactly known for understanding the ins and outs of human life spans, you know."
Pen scratched on paper, the strokes made bold with triumph.
It must be done. I will not countenance continued resistance, yet I would be a fool to discount the possibility. There is but one way to ensure I own his soul, and although it is a step I have never taken, I am now prepared to do so.
I have not told my servants of this choice, not even my dear Bellatrix. To them, Sirius Black is nothing save a resilient prisoner, one whom they wonder why I devote so much attention to. Yet I have long since realized that this son of the Fourteen is not simply another Auror. Ergo, I will do what is necessary to shape him to my will. This moment, this victory, will be mine alone. One way or another, I will prevail.
Author's Note: I can't apologize enough for the delay, save to say that I managed to lose a large chunk of this story. It is, however, now complete, and I'll try to get the last four chapters (and the epilogue) up in the near future. In the meantime, stay tuned for Chapter 21: "Heart and Will", in which Voldemort acts to shape Sirius into the perfect tool once and for all.