Chapter 37: Spit from Different Tongues
Dagmar started to rouse. Nowadays, it came with dread and apathy. She didn't really feel like she had anything to be awake for. Mostly it was just to be a bored spectator while Voldemort pored endlessly over scrolls in the library. Dagmar could hear people outside, as well as the murmuring voices of the women while they sat out on the front porch. She could tell the weather was beautiful on the other side of the drawn curtains.
It was night right now. Dagmar laid on the couch. She didn't feel Voldemort there. Dagmar decided to get up. She was tired, but she didn't know when the next time would come that she got to be in control. Voldemort didn't much care to allow it. As they neared the Greek Isles, he started to feel the weight of how unprepared he was to delve into the Balkans in search for Bjorn.
Dagmar slipped quietly out of the library and headed for the kitchen. There were some tarts on the cupboard in a jar that she'd wanted after dinner, but Voldemort never took one.
"Can't sleep?"
Having noted the beady little eyes watching her, Dagmar wasn't surprised that Nagini hissed something.
"He can. I can't," she replied.
Nagini had put her head back down before Dagmar screwed the jar lid back in place and turned back around. Dagmar headed for the front door. Being stuck inside the house on top of inside her own body was too many degrees of isolation to bear. Now that she had the opportunity to assuage both, she intended to do so.
The breeze was warm and smelled like the sea. It reminded Dagmar of midsummer back in Bergen. She sat down on one of the benches and nibbled on her tart while peering up at the stars. They seemed all the brighter without the moon anywhere in sight.
Dagmar's chewing slowed as her throat tightened. Homesickness washed over her overwhelmingly fast—too fast to fend off. Dagmar held her face with her free hand while she tried, but it was far too insistent. She felt too alone. She missed Draco too much. She missed her life.
It didn't feel much better to have it out of her system because it didn't fix anything. Dagmar had lost her appetite for the tart. She continued to pick at it anyway, just for something to do as her skyward gaze fell out of focus. The feeling of a presence was expected, although different than usual. Dagmar squinted slightly into the darkness when she heard the light pad of footsteps. She didn't care enough to feel alarmed when she saw a figure with long blonde hair coming toward the steps. Dagmar's first instinct was that it was Narcissa, but she doubted Narcissa would walk around without light to guide her way.
The woman wore a white dress. She stopped at the bottom of the steps, leaned against the railing.
"Are you all right?" she asked in Druidic. "I heard you crying."
"I'm okay." Dagmar sniffled. "Who are you?"
"You don't remember me?"
"Sorry," Dagmar said. "Were you here when I was younger or something?"
"I've been here for a long time."
She came up onto the porch and sat down beside Dagmar. She smelled like moss and earth in a way that comforted Dagmar. Now that the woman was close enough for Dagmar to actually see her face in the minimal light, a sense of déjà vu tugged at her. Her name was hidden from Dagmar just beyond the tip of her tongue.
"No," Dagmar quietly spoke. "Maybe I do remember you a little bit."
"I'm Lys."
The name didn't mean anything to Dagmar, but she continued to stare at Lys in attempt to make something come forward. It remained stuck. "I guess you know my name, huh?"
Lys giggled to herself. "Yes."
She could probably answer so many of the questions that Dagmar had. Dagmar struggled to think what even the point was of knowing them now. It wasn't like she could actually do anything with that information. Given her circumstances, she didn't even know if she cared to know. Her mum had already hidden the fact that Dagmar harboured a fragment of Voldemort's soul from her. What else might there be that could be worse?
"My mum never told me about this place," Dagmar said. "She just let me forget."
"That's what she said." Lys sighed. "There were always certain things that had to be kept from you. I've helped her take care of you since she first came here. That you grew up this time not knowing who I was hurt a little. But I understand why she did it."
Dagmar stared at her anew. "What do you mean, this time?"
Lys hesitated. For a second, Dagmar grew annoyed. Here was someone else yet again denying her an answer she sought. Before that could fully blossom over Dagmar's chest and up to her shoulders, Lys shrugged. "Your mum said she intended to talk to you more about it once you'll speak to her again, so I guess it doesn't matter if I tell you. You aren't aware you had lives before this one?"
"No."
"I couldn't tell you how many. I've seen. . ." Lys' lips moved as she counted on her fingers, "nine of them."
Dagmar blinked and looked away. She tried even harder to remember anything. Maybe the déjà vu feeling she got with Lys was the best she could do. She'd experienced it before too, with other people. What about that red-haired girl in Leidfall? And Luca, the first time they met?
"How?" Dagmar asked. "I'm born, aren't I? Or is it some sort of magic?"
"The body your mum has now used to be yours. She does something with your soul since she can hold onto it, and then you can be born again."
"And we've always just lived here?"
"Long as I've known you, but you must have come from somewhere before that." Lys folded her hands in her lap. "She never told you about how your life works because she didn't want you scared about how death works. You don't usually make it much older than you are now. You will now, don't worry. Your mum took her soul fragment out of you to make room for his. She meant to give you a free life this time once she makes everything right again."
"You mean with Bjorn?" Dagmar asked. "Has he been alive as long as me too?"
Lys shook her head. "He was only born the one time. Your mum had him by Voldemort."
That made Dagmar nervous for some reason. "I see."
"He seemed so nice when your mum first met him." Lys sighed. "Now he's taken everything from her. The men she loved, her home, you. . .she'll have a second chance with Bjorn, but I think she'll always feel slightly empty to not have you around like you used to be. She said your soul is as old as she is, and that it's a long time to know someone to then suddenly go without."
Dagmar's throat tightened slightly. "I guess."
"She loves you," Lys said. "Look at me."
Dagmar did. When their gazes met, something in her mind flexed before her imagination lit up enough to produce images. Right away, Dagmar could tell they were of a life—of lives—she didn't remember living. She and her mum sat on the beach, dressed similar in white like Lys wore now. They watched the sun set among a myriad of colours. Then they were in a smaller version of the kitchen, giggling over something before her mum gave her a tight hug from behind and snuggled her. In another, they bickered. It tapered off, Dagmar's mum looking irritated, but Dagmar wore an impish smile behind her back that Dagmar recognized even now as one she wore when intentionally stirring things up.
Dagmar's age was inconsistent throughout. A common theme through it all was that Dagmar was happy. She became aware outside of Lys' memories that her cheeks were wet again.
Lys appeared. Her brow wrinkled as she watched Dagmar wipe her face with her hands.
"I don't remember any of that," Dagmar said. "I remember my mum being good with me up until a few years ago. I miss it so badly. I hate what she's done to me—to us."
"If she could do things again, she'd do them very differently. This isn't something she ever wanted for you."
"She told you that?"
"We talk a lot since you two have come home."
Dagmar nodded mindlessly. She looked back over the dark yard, anxiety pooling slightly in her chest. She couldn't just forget the things her mum had done to her. Narcissa had said to trust her, and maybe Dagmar had to give that a real try. Would Narcissa tell her that without a reason, knowing what she did? Narcissa was equally here against her will. She wouldn't stand Dagmar's mum if she thought she truly believed what happened to Dagmar right now was fine.
"I might go back to bed," Dagmar said.
"Do you feel better?"
"Maybe a little." Dagmar sniffled. "Thanks."
She headed back inside. The house remained still, saying nothing about all the number of bodies it harboured. Dagmar stood in the foyer. When she listened, she became more aware of quiet snores coming from upstairs.
Dagmar felt too lonely to go back into the library. She didn't want to sleep on the couch, even if it was pretty comfortable. Chewing briefly on her bottom lip, Dagmar started up the stairs. This was her house, so she shouldn't feel like anything was out of bounds. Voldemort didn't ever go upstairs. He wanted to keep himself separate from his followers. Living together like they all did right now made it too hard otherwise not to fall into a familial dynamic. Dagmar missed when she had that for herself. She not only missed Draco back home, but also Hermione, Blaise, Luca, Daphne, Theo, Milly, the Dyrdahls, the Ramstads, her coworkers. . .hell, she even missed Potter. Maybe it was somewhat his fault Dagmar ended up here, but to see him again would mean that things remained some semblance of normal.
There were several doors at the top of the landing, one on each end and then five or six down each side. Dagmar's heart skipped as she looked back toward the front of the house. More déjà vu washed over her with an edge of sickness. She'd known in the back of her mind that if she grew up in this house, it was likely the one she once dreamed about every night.
When Dagmar visited it then, there were only three doors down the left, and then the one at the far side. Curious, Dagmar approached the third from the end. She could hear the sound of sleep on the other side when she rested her ear close enough to it.
Cool air came from underneath the second one. All Dagmar could hear when she listened hard enough at it was her own pounding heart. This door had driven her nightmares. Whatever was behind it had been so horrifying that it scarred her for years. Dagmar rested her hand on the knob.
It turned when she tried it. She expected a creak, but it was as quiet as it was in her dreams. The room was beyond dark without the moon. Dagmar waved a hand to light any torches that might be in here. They lit up, but seemed dull.
The smell of dust clogged Dagmar's sinuses. She brought the wrist of the robe she wore to her mouth and nose to act as a filter. Dust covered all the furniture and robbed all of it of any colour. Dagmar stared at the crib. The blanket was still disturbed, as if someone very little had expected to come back here.
Dagmar waved her hand again, using the runes on her as means to clear some of the filth. The dresser and little table beside the chair stayed off-white, as was their true colour, but the chair turned a deep blue. The crib frame was off-white too. The bedding was very colourful.
Although Dagmar could breathe easier, the smell of burning dust from the torches still lingered. Dagmar tried to remember any of this. She stood at the edge of the crib and ran her fingers over the rail. Nothing was coming back.
It didn't feel right to be here, as if she was intruding. This room hadn't been where she meant to go, anyway. Dagmar extinguished the torches and closed the door behind her. Something was more familiar about the end of the hall. She had a feeling she'd done this quiet pad over to it in the middle of the night at least a couple times when she was little. She'd shared a bed with her mum for the majority of her youth. It was possible that had already become a habit before whatever instigated her nightmares.
Dagmar peeked her head in. Her mum was alone, her shoulder rising and falling with sleep. Dagmar crept over to the empty side of the bed and shed her robe. She crawled in beside her.
Her mum took a deep breath, stilled, then jolted when she looked back over her shoulder. "What're you doing?"
"Sorry." Dagmar didn't know if she was apologizing for waking her or thinking this was acceptable.
Her mum stared at her in the dark, only her hair slightly illuminated from outside as Dagmar's eyes adjusted. "I thought you were him, but he'd never apologize. What are you doing?"
The question was much softer this time. Dagmar's eyes welled up and her throat tightened again. "I don't know. I'm lonely."
Her mum settled facing her. "I'm sorry, jenta mi."
"In a way that's nice. This is the longest I've been by myself without him."
"He's not awake right now?"
"No."
"Let me know when you feel him again. You know why nobody here can tell you what's going on, right?"
"It'd be bad if he hears?"
"Ja."
"So there's a plan, then?"
Her mum rested a hand on Dagmar's arm. "I know I've done so little for you to trust me, but I'm still trying."
Dagmar just nodded. It wasn't like she had anyone else to turn to in the situation. She didn't have a choice but to leave everything up to her mum. That scared Dagmar because trust certainly ran low. She was currently living the consequences of someone putting good faith in Voldemort. Watching Voldemort operate from the sidelines had given Dagmar a pretty clear view of how he worked. She paid particularly close attention to Kingsley's treatment. He'd been marked now, and the spirit of camaraderie at meals was meant to warm Kingsley toward them outside of ideology. Dagmar doubted it would work on Kingsley, but it was interesting nonetheless. She wondered how many others at the table that had worked for, and if it had once worked for her mum.
It wasn't really safe to talk, but Dagmar didn't much care to anyway. She was tired and felt a childish form of safety when in her mum's bed. Dagmar fell asleep easily, as far as she could tell. She was disoriented when she woke up again to daylight in the library. Dagmar didn't have control anymore, since Voldemort too was conscious.
She sat at the end of the table in Voldemort's usual seat. The seating arrangement was similar to dinner, although Kingsley wasn't here. The table seemed longer to Dagmar.
Conversation hushed when a series of heavy footsteps sounded on the porch steps. The front door opened. Bellatrix and Rodolphus came in first, followed by who Dagmar had learned were named the Carrows. The Carrows looked wind-swept and carried brooms. So too did the slew of men that followed them in. Dagmar recognized them from Wanted posters after the Azkaban break in 1996, but she couldn't remember names. Rodolphus' younger brother was obvious among them. They had a similar face, although Rabastan's was thinner. His hair was lanky and shoulder-length, whereas Narcissa had cut Rodolphus' off.
Dagmar disliked him immediately from the quick way his gaze travelled her over before landing on her eyes. He laughed. "Well, shit."
Voldemort was about equally impressed. Dagmar felt her mouth turn down into a sneer. "You're lucky I care to hear what you have to say, Rabastan."
"Sweet digs is all I got to say." His gaze roamed her again before he tried to cover that by looking around the library. "What is this place? I didn't realize you had a hideout so close. And here I've been roughing it like a pillock."
"It's more than I care to explain right now. Sit down."
Bellatrix took her usual seat beside Voldemort. The five that had just arrived filled the rest of the chairs. Perhaps on purpose, that entailed the five closest ones on Voldemort's left hand side.
"Well?" Voldemort said. "I didn't come all this way for silent stares. What do you have?"
"We did find the archmages," the man closest to Voldemort said. "There's five of them. Does that line up with your understanding?"
"I knew there were at least three," Voldemort replied. "Who are they?"
"We each took one to keep an eye on and look into," the man said. "I went into northern Albania. One named Dietrich lives there, in Valbonë Valley. Seems like a necromancer sort of type. Wants to be, anyway. He can bring things back from the dead, but it ain't no life anyone would want to live. Think like someone that's been kissed by a dementor. The person's gone, it's just the body. But Dietrich seems to think something about them can be used for divination purposes. Since they're not really living, I guess he doesn't see anything wrong about using them for tests. Lots of screams in the night. Lots of failed experiments wandering around the woods."
Voldemort cringed. "That's who I did my best to avoid when I was in Albania. Nagini was the one that warned me about the word among smaller creatures in the area. Does anyone live with Dietrich, Dolohov?"
"Bloke like that?" Dolohov scoffed. "Absolutely not."
Voldemort looked then at the next person at the table. "Mulciber? Which one were you watching?"
"Name was Withypoll," Mulciber replied, arms tightly folded. "She lived up in the Balkan Mountains in Bulgaria. I'd tell you she was a young and lush little thing, but it's some sort of illusion. I saw her when she let it down during a walk in the woods. Old hag, but she had a lot of young pupils—actually young ones. All girls."
"What sort of magic does she practice?" Voldemort asked.
"Just general witchcraft." Mulciber shrugged. "Lots to do with herbology and potions. I thought it worth trying to get in there. Cut my leg pretty bad on purpose and stumbled in. She wouldn't let the girls near me, but tended to me herself."
"Did you talk to her at all?"
"Didn't speak a word of English."
Voldemort grunted. "Anything else?"
"No."
"Travers?"
"I was up in the Romanian Carpathians, east of Brasov." Travers sat in the middle of them all. "Caturix was this one. Had a lot of pupils too, all boys. I thought that was weird. They were school-age."
"Durmstrang is very selective." Voldemort's gaze flicked over to Dagmar's mum, disorienting Dagmar briefly. "Or, it was when Karkaroff ran it. He didn't allow Muggle-borns to attend. Those in Eastern Europe who protested against that chose not to send their children. I never put much thought toward it before, but those students had to go somewhere. We may have accidentally found the answer to that riddle as far as it pertains to here in the Balkans."
"Oh yeah." Travers cleared his throat. "Caturix lived in a castle. Kind of reminded me of Hogwarts actually, just a lot smaller. As for what kind of magic he performed, it was kind of like what Mulciber found with Withypoll. General wizardry, as far as I could see. The students played Quidditch. They had an area set up for it. I thought about going up there to try and talk to someone, but didn't want to risk it without express permission after what Enoch did with Withypoll."
"When I was laid up in the little hospital wing or whatever there, someone came in and said something to Withypoll," Mulciber said. "Mentioned Caturix's name. I figured that meant they knew each other. It was enough of a risk to wander in there when I have my face on posters in Britain and probably most of Western Europe at this point. If they corresponded with each other, we didn't want it to seem suspicious that both got English-speaking visitors the same week."
"That's for the best," Voldemort told them both. "Rookwood?"
"Magdalena," he replied. "She had a school-type setup too in Belgrade. Er, in Yugoslavia or Serbia, or whatever you want to call the country now. I'd say her school was the most official looking one out of all the archmages. It was more an artsy-fartsy kind of place. Sort of like Belgrade itself. She had it hidden in an old abandoned church. There were a lot of languages in there. I couldn't really tell the difference between the local languages, but I definitely heard some French and German. Maybe Dutch."
Voldemort hummed thoughtfully at that, his gaze flicking again to Dagmar's mum. "Interesting. Anything else about her?"
"Not really." Rookwood shrugged. "I did like everyone else but Enoch. Kept my distance. Just pretended to be a tourist checking out the supposedly-abandoned church."
"Rabastan?" Voldemort addressed him. "You had the last one, then?"
"Zabrina." He'd turned serious where he sat beside Rodolphus. "She didn't have a school or anything like that, but it seemed to me like she travelled a lot. She wasn't home when we first got down here, so I went in her place to take a look around. Lots of trinkets and momentos from around the world. There were English books on her bookshelves."
"Think she's a speaker?" Voldemort asked.
"Couldn't tell you. It's a secondary language through most of the Balkans, but that might only be in the cities."
"Where was Zabrina located?"
"It's called Vrelo Bosne," Rabastan replied. "It's a nature preserve outside of Sarajevo."
In preparation for this meeting, Voldemort had laid a map of the Balkans out on the table. He placed stones where Dolohov, Mulciber, Travers, Rookwood, and Rabastan had pinpointed the archmages to habitate. He rubbed his chin afterward as he studied it.
"So we have three with pupils," he said. "Dietrich, I don't think for the purpose of our search would be someone worth bothering. Was Zabrina gone the entire time you were keeping an eye on her, Rabastan?"
"Nah, she came home a little over a week ago."
"Three with pupils and two that might possibly speak English," Voldemort continued to think aloud. "Only one close to Bucharest, where based on what Norheim said was where he headed. I'm encouraged that the one close to Bucharest has male pupils. Was there a preference between male and female at the Belgrade school, or was it co-ed?"
"Co-ed," Rookwood answered.
"Belgrade's nearly three-hundred miles from Bucharest," Voldemort kept on. "That's not much at all if Norheim used the floo system to get around. I would be surprised if there wasn't a direct connection. Considering that Magdalena is also likely to speak English, that might be an appropriate place to start."
"What with, if it's not too much to ask?" Rabastan spoke up. "Documenting the archmages' locations and activities was all we were really told to do by Amycus and Alecto. They mentioned keeping an eye out for memory modification, but we didn't notice anything about that."
"It might not matter," Voldemort replied. "We're looking for a boy named Bjorn. I'm sure the details of that will find you while you're here, but what you need to know for the purpose of this conversation is that he's recently turned seventeen years old. He wasn't at Durmstrang when we looked. Considering the stringent entry requirements there, I sincerely doubted Karkaroff would have accepted him. There would have been no way to be sure he's a pureblood. I do not believe Karkaroff would've given him the benefit of the doubt."
"So it wasn't Norheim we were actually looking for?" Dolohov's brow furrowed. "Was Bjorn the travel companion?"
"Expected to be, until we found Norheim alone in Paris. He told Bella that he took Bjorn to Bergen and then flooed as far away as he could. That was Bucharest. Somewhere between there and Paris, he had someone wipe his memories. He lost track of Bjorn."
"What if he went somewhere else from Bucharest?" Travers asked.
"Then our search continues." Voldemort toyed with the stone nearest his right hand on the map, the one that sat on the Balkan Mountains. "This is certainly the closest we've been to pinpointing Bjorn's location. Hildegard spent over a decade searching for him as well before I returned."
He looked at Dagmar's mum for longer than just a split second, along with many other people along the table. She grew uncomfortable with all the attention and kept her gaze down. It was clear to Dagmar that she was fighting off tears.
"Does it seem promising to you?" Voldemort asked her.
"Ja, I mean. . ." Dagmar's mum cleared her throat to try and make rid of all the emotion sitting there. "It's definitely the closest we've ever been. I'm just trying not to let my hopes get too high because it hurts too much to be disappointed."
When Dagmar's mum leaned back in her seat in attempt for cover so that she could wipe her eyes, Narcissa rubbed her back.
"We could perhaps leave the meeting here," Voldemort said, voice softer than Dagmar usually heard. He looked again at Dolohov, Mulciber, Travers, Rookwood, and Rabastan. "For now, I believe you five have done enough for me. You've been at this for months without a proper rest. If you go upstairs, you'll each find an empty room. Make yourselves comfortable. Dinner's around six."
"Thank you, my Lord," Dolohov replied. "Some comfort will be a nice break after camping in the Albanian forest."
"Oh, I empathize completely." Voldemort smiled as that garnered a few laughs. "Hildegard, would you stay back a moment?"
She'd gotten up with Narcissa and Alecto, probably intent for the kitchen to get started on a meal fit to feed twenty people. Dagmar's mum stopped beside the door and waited for everyone else to file out. Footsteps became constant on the stairs. Once everyone was gone, the library door closed with Voldemort's waved hand. He approached Dagmar's mum.
"I've already started coming up with ideas on how to approach a situation like this," he told her. "Stealth has worked for us in the past. When Bella fetched Dagmar from Bergen to take to Paris, she didn't even know that anything had happened until we returned to her home a week later."
"So you want to sneak in on the two schools with boys and see if he's there?" Dagmar's mum still sniffled a little. "Like we did with Beauxbatons and Kapsferd?"
"Not that sneaky," Voldemort replied. "If we snatch him in such a manner, it's possible some sort of alarm could be raised. I also wouldn't want to risk attempting memory charms on such practiced magic-users. We need to be more subtle than that. You must have noticed by now the Polyjuice Potion in the ice box that Narcissa made in December?"
Dagmar's mum nodded. "She told me about it when I asked."
"The majority of people on this island have Magical Enforcement alerts levied on them, but a few don't. I think it would be best if you and I went in with new faces under the guise of concerned parents looking for our son. It certainly wouldn't be a difficult part to play."
"No."
"We'll discuss it more later." Voldemort took a step back toward his seat, gaze on the map. "I'd like to give a week, perhaps, to allow things to marinate."
"Okay."