A/N: Quick update this time! Also just a reminder, I revised Chapter 17, so if you haven't, I'd suggest you skim through it (the changes were significant enough, I think, to warrant a revisit). So... Also, it seems as though we've come to a shift, which has spurred my decision to split this story in two parts. Here we have the beginning of Part II:
—PART II—
CHAPTER XVIII
The Special Assignment
[12 Grimmauld Place, December 1995]
Harry Potter wakes in a cold sweat, his head about to burst with the pain issuing from his lightning bolt scar. He's just had a terrible dream involving a large black snake that was... He springs out of bed. It was attacking Mr. Weasley. Not even pausing to change out of his pajamas, Harry stumbles down from Gryffindor tower and makes a beeline to the headmaster's office.
Snow's falling soundlessly on the empty street outside Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The Order of the Phoenix has just received news that Arthur Weasley has stabilized and will be joining them at headquarters tomorrow for Christmas dinner, which has done wonders to boost the spirits of the house. However, one person certainly isn't feeling the love. V. Spektor is in the living room plunking out a melody on the ancient and completely out-of-tune piano. Black's been talking about her nonstop since she arrived from Hogwarts about how she's a traitor, can't be trusted, and whatever else he's got himself convinced of. Maybe he's right. Maybe she can't be trusted by these people. It's not like she hasn't heard that before. (And it's not like she signed up for this either...)
"Bit dismal in here, no?" Albus Dumbledore glides into the room, flicking a small instrument that looks like a muggle lighter, a series of flames alighting on the candelabra. "You heard the news about Arthur?"
"Yes." Spektor says absently. She's been hitting the same key on the piano, like a skipping record.
"How are you doing?" Albus asks, sitting down next to her on the piano bench. Spektor stretches a disgustingly fake smile, holds it for a few seconds, then lets her face fall back into its usual expressionless state. "Sirius Black told me you are an animagus. Is that true?"
"Well well...he's sure made the rounds." She says coldly. "Yes, it's true. And so's he...which I guess you know..."
"Your animal form is a snake?"
"You are drawing connections where there are none." She stares him down. "I can assure you, Albus, that I was not in the Department of Mysteries the night Arthur was attacked. What reason would I possibly have for attacking Arthur Weasley?" Dumbledore doesn't ask how she knows Arthur was in the Department of Mysteries, but he makes note of that for sure.
"Young Harry Potter and his friend Hermione Granger seem to think you have it out for the Weasleys..." Albus says. "Have you spoken with Severus recently?"
"Yes. But...?" Spektor freezes. Dumbledore sent Snape to talk to her that evening. So maybe...was it all a lie—what he said about the betrayal and all that? Albus Dumbledore smiles.
"I think it's time for us to discuss another aspect of your special assignment." He says, pushing her hands from the keys and closing the wooden casing over them. "Given what you've divulged to me during our last meeting, it seems reasonable to think that...You-Know-Who...would be eager to see you again."
"Most likely." Spektor says tensely through clenched teeth.
"I would like you to pay him a visit. Severus has agreed to escort you." Dumbledore's peering down at the poor woman, her eyes shadowed, wrinkles spidering from their corners, as though at a pawn on a wizard's chessboard.
"And what, may I ask, do you intend for me to do on this...visit...?" Spektor asks testily.
"Be eager to see him as well." Dumbledore says, bemused.
"Why do you trust me?" She inquires.
"I don't need to trust you." Dumbledore says cryptically, wearing what feels like a fiercely friendly expression. He pats her hands, which are resting on the piano, and rises from the bench, exiting the room without another word. She heaves a sigh and lowers her forehead to rest on the piano with a painful thunk—this is all getting so complicated. She really did not sign up for this.
Molly's whipped up an incredible feast, and the whole of the Order is now gathered around the long kitchen table. The chatter of cutlery on porcelain, and the banter back and forth between comrades distracts from the tenseness hanging over them. Arthur's seated at the head of the table, bandaged but smiling, taking small bites of Molly's delectable roast goose. Spektor's sitting between Severus Snape and Nymphadora Tonks, and fills her plate several times over the course of the meal.
"Quite the appetite for someone so thin." Tonks comments. "I don't know how you manage." She means it as a complement, of course.
"I'm always hungry." Spektor says flatly. "Always." Tonks laughs nervously and redirects her attention to her own plate.
"So Dumbledore spoke with you earlier?" Severus practically whispers. Spektor nods. "We'll have to decide on a time. I believe he wants this to be carried out as soon as possible."
"Great. Can't wait." She says grimly.
"What're you two plotting then, hmm?" A familiar voice interjects. It's Sirius Black.
"Go jump off a cliff, Black." Spektor retorts instinctively.
"Oh I'm sure you'd love that." He says back.
"You know what I'd love?" She says, maybe a bit too forcefully. The whole room falls silent. "If you would just leave me the hell alone." Her eyes scan the room. The statement's really meant for all of them—each and every one.
"Shhhh Sirius please." Remus Lupin places a hand on Sirius' shoulder, in an effort to restrain his hot-headed friend.
"Yeah? That's what you want?" Sirius retorts angrily. "Maybe you should leave everyone else alone then! Like poor Arthur? And his son?"
"Black, really. It's Christmas dinner. Don't go spoiling it by being such a righteous asshole." Spektor sighs, putting her head in her hands. She's got a terrible headache, of which Sirius is only half the cause. He's teetering on the brink of rage, visibly fuming. "Honestly though. What did I ever do to you?" Sirius' thinking about it now.
"Um..." He's got nothing.
"I'll tell you what I did to you." Spektor says heavily, leaning across the table, lowering her voice. She gestures for Sirius to lean in to hear her, and he does. "How exactly did your cell get unlocked the night you escaped? Do you recall?" Sirius looks up at her, meets her eyes for a second before looking away. He thought his cell was left unlocked by a careless guard. But...wait a second...did she...
"What? You unlocked my cell? Why?" He asks, incredulous.
"For the greater good." She winks. Then, "You're innocent. Obviously." Sirius leans back, processing all this. Remus is looking at him curiously. Spektor's smirking, sipping her wine slowly, not taking her eyes off of Sirius. He's squirming in his seat, incredibly uncomfortable.
"Uhh...thanks." He says gruffly.
"Of course." She says.
The meal's winding down, everyone's filled to bursting, and a sleepiness is spreading over them all. As is customary, Spektor's indulged in one too many glasses of red wine, and is in a pleasant, yet volatile, headspace. And when she runs into Sirius Black in the hallway before ascending the stairs to the attic, she decides she's going to get that apology from him she feels she deserves.
"So where is it?" She asks.
"Where's what?" Sirius squints.
"My apology." She says, raising her eyebrows.
"Hah! Apology?" Sirius laughs. Remus is coming down the hall now, and after noticing the two talking, he quickens his pace. "I don't owe you anything."
"After all the shit you were talking these past few days? So is Severus right then? That you and your dear friend James were just good-for-nothing bullies..." She glares at him. If she was sober she certainly wouldn't have said something so charged, but what the hell—let the games begin.
"How dare you talk about James!" Sirius flushes. "You didn't even know him."
"And you don't know me." She says forcefully. "If you apologize, then I will."
"I'm not apologizing to a stinking Death Eater."
"Merlin's beard—how many times do I need to go over this with you—I'm not a Death Eater. I was thrown into Azkaban before Death Eaters even existed. And not to mention, before you were even born." She says exasperatedly. "What's this really all about, Black?"
"You're working for You-Know-Who. Everyone knows it. It's obvious."
"I don't work for anyone!"
"Not Dumbledore then?"
"So you think you're gonna expose me as what, a double-agent or some shit?"
"Yeah. Maybe." Sirius is losing steam. An idea dawns on Spektor—the real basic root of the whole stupid thing.
"You're just jealous that you're stuck in this house and I'm not." She says. It's true. Painfully so.
"I'm not jealous of you. I pity you." Black says, unconvincingly.
"Oh yeah?" She backs towards the front door, opens it and steps outside. "Not jealous, huh?" Sirius glares at her. "C'mon out. It's such a nice night." She taunts.
"Sirius—don't." Remus warns. But Sirius doesn't listen. He lunges at the frail witch on the stoop, snowflakes clinging now to her hair, settling on her shoulders. She steps out of the way and he lands face-first in the snow. She looks down at the foolish man at her feet, shaking her head.
"You never should've spoken ill of me." She says dangerously. "You will pay for that. Eventually." She steps over him, back into the entryway, and up the stairs. Remus drags Sirius back inside and shuts the door quickly. Passing Severus, she whispers "So we're going on a trip then? How's tomorrow for you?"
Near her bed—just a thick pile of blankets on the floor in the attic—is a small parcel. It's wrapped in red tissue paper and tied up with a gold string. The piece of parchment tucked under the string reads Happy Christmas, Victoria in graceful, elegant penmanship—Albus Dumbledore's. Spektor carefully tears away the tissue paper to reveal a compact mirror about the size of her palm. She stares at it for a good long while, gobsmacked, all the air leaks from her lungs. He knows.
Ancient witches and wizards used to say: "Stare too long at yourself in the mirror and you'll become a monster." And they had good reason for saying this too—and old wive's tale sure, but the power of mirrors isn't to be taken lightly. Although many modern-day witches and wizards have become far less superstitious, some still refuse to hang mirrors in their homes, or cover them with black cloth when not in use. That's because, whether these witches and wizards realize it or not, mirrors are the means by which the devils keep tabs on them—observe them, influence them, etc. So naturally, for example, those humans exhibiting an unhealthy amount of vanity will be repaid by a disturbingly warped reflection of themselves, courtesy of the devils at the Embassy. All part of a day's work.
For the infernal, mirrors work in a slightly different way. Instead of showing a picture-accurate reflection of themselves (or whatever else appears in the glass), mirrors reflect the essence of the self (or object). They're quite useful for separating truth from illusion and detecting deception, which devils are always in the business of dealing with. One only needs to catch a glimpse of you in a mirror to know you, to see through to the very core of your soul. When she was young, Victoria Spektor was haunted by mirrors, showing her truly awful things. But perhaps now...hmmm...let's see here... She slips off the ring and sets it on her bed beside her. And so, now, Victoria Spektor looks down at this small mirror and sees herself, her pale waxy skin, her dull black eyes, her long dark hair, and that's it. No distortions this time—no creepy alterations of her appearance. She blinks rapidly. Could it be? Perhaps she's not a monster after all. Another small step towards freedom?
There's a knock at the door. It's Ron Weasley and he's got something in his hands.
"I uh...I wanted to...give you this..." He stammers nervously, arms outstretched. Spektor takes the small parcel, loosely wrapped in a yellowing copy of The Daily Prophet, a look of utter confusion on her face.
"What is this?"
"Open it." Ron says. Spektor rips the paper apart to reveal a small badge. When she doesn't know what it is, Ron explains, "It's the Weasley family crest. I remember you said your stepmum was a Weasley...and that you never really felt...accepted...which is terrible and not like the Weasleys at all so...I thought this might...uh...make you happier...or something..." He's rocking back and forth from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck.
"I..." Spektor starts, but can't continue because she bursts into tears. Ron's nervous, worried that he's made a mistake.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you!"
"No—no! I'm not upset! This is the nicest thing..." She says between sobs. "I don't deserve this."
"Sure you do. Why not?" Ron says. "You're one of us...sort of."
"No, you don't understand..." She starts, but Ron cuts her off.
"I don't think I need to..." He says simply. "Uh...Happy Christmas, Professor." And he exits, leaving the door open behind them. She rises to shut it, leans her back against the weathered oak, attempts to pull herself back together, and looks down at the badge cupped in her palm. Something's trying to right itself here. And how more obvious could the message be? There may be no good, and no evil, but there is kindness—and she'd be a fool to ignore it when it is so clearly bestowed upon her.
In her heart there's a lightness she hasn't felt in decades. So light it's making her dizzy. She feels around for the ring on the bed and slides it back on her finger, like an iron shackle clicking shut once more, and she takes a deep breath. Small steps...easy now...
