"Crucio!"
Minerva screamed, screamed louder than she ever had in her life. Every inch of her body seemed to be on fire; she no longer knew where she was; her head was surely going to burst with the unbearable pain. She wanted unconsciousness; she wanted to die, to end this agony.
It stopped as suddenly as it began, leaving Minerva hanging limply from the chains binding her to the stone wall of her prison, her muscles still twitching every so often. She summoned every ounce of strength she possessed, straightened as best she could, and raised her head.
"I'm not going to tell you anything, Dolohov," she said.
The man in front of her laughed and hit her with the Cruciatus Curse again.
Minerva gasped, but did not scream this time. She held back the cry of agony that threatened to burst from her, though it cost her every bit of resolution she had. After what seemed like an eternity, the pain stopped.
"Changed your mind yet?" Antonin Dolohov sneered.
"No," Minerva gasped.
To her surprise he did not perform the Cruciatus Curse again, but merely said ominously, "I'll leave you to reconsider that decision," and swept from the room.
Once he was gone, the tears came. Minerva was very hungry and thirsty, ached all over, had a raging headache, and desperately needed a bathroom. But these were nothing compared to the fact that she was chained to the wall in the enemy fortress, and no one knew where she was. Bitter hopelessness surged over her, and she began to cry in earnest.
After a time she stopped; she thought she had heard something. Yes, there were footsteps approaching her room. They paused outside the door, then it opened and someone stepped inside. It was not Dolohov, back to torture her again, but a younger man, with greasy shoulder-length black hair, a hooked nose, and cold, fathomless black eyes. He came over and stood in front of her.
"Professor," he said, his voice cold and silky.
"Snape?" she whispered, recognising one of her former students.
"Yes, Professor McGonagall," he sneered.
"So, you followed your filthy friends to the Dark Lord's side after all." Her voice was hoarse and throaty and nothing at all like her normal crisp tones.
"I have joined the ranks of the exalted," Severus Snape confirmed. Minerva thought she heard his voice twist sardonically on the word 'exalted', and it gave her a moment's hope, instantly quenched.
"I'm told you won't disclose any of the information you undoubtedly have," he said sibilantly.
"And I don't intend to," Minerva replied bravely.
"Are you sure?" Snape's voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Quite sure." Minerva knew that her voice sounded steady and strong, but to her it seemed to come from a long way off.
"We shall have to resort to desperate measures then," Snape said. Minerva did not allow any expression to show on her face.
"It would be so much easier for everyone involved and so much less painful for you if you would just tell me now," he continued.
There was a pause.
"It is rumoured that Dumbledore will soon be leaving for Germany. Is that true?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Minerva said. Snape moved so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face.
"Is it true or not?" he hissed.
"You always were a slimy sort of boy," Minerva said with difficulty. "Just like the rest of them – all those Slytherins you used to hang out with. I suppose they're all here too."
Snape raised a hand and placed one finger on each side of Minerva's throat. He could feel her lifeblood pulsing under his fingertips. "You'll be getting a visit from them if you don't tell me whether or not Dumbledore is leaving for Germany next week."
"I would love to see them again," Minerva forced herself to say. Snape's fingers tightened in anger around her throat. She choked; everything began to spin and her vision faded, then the pressure abruptly released. By the time Minerva could see properly again Snape had gone.
* * *
Albus paced his study restlessly, his hands clasped behind his back. His long strides carried him across the room in just a few steps, then he turned on his heel and paced back, back and forth, back and forth in an endless circuit of the room he knew like his own reflection. He had been pacing uselessly for quite some time now, his mind working fruitlessly for lack of information. He knew now what the Muggle detective Sherlock Holmes had meant when he said, "My brain is like a racing engine, racking itself to pieces."
He wore rich robes of a deep green colour. The matching hat sat on his massive, cluttered desk. A thick silver ring set with an emerald flashed on his finger in the flickering light of the candles.
Albus drew up short when someone knocked on the heavy oaken door. He paused, then went and settled himself behind his desk.
"Come in," he called. The door opened and Professor Sprout came in. She was a short, plump witch with her hat perched on top of her flyaway hair.
"Albus," she said gently. "You've missed dinner. Would you like me to send the house-elves up with something?"
"No, thank you, Penelope." Albus picked a piece of parchment and waved it. "I'm busy."
Penelope Sprout sat down in front of Albus' desk. "Have you any idea where they've taken Minerva?"
Albus shook his head wearily. "As yet I have only suspicions, nothing concrete."
"Nothing solid enough to act upon."
"Precisely."
Sprout sighed. "Is there anything I can do?"
Albus smiled tiredly. "Just keep the students occupied and out of trouble. Right now I don't have the time to deal with them too."
"Certainly." Sprout stood up. "I'll leave you alone with your thoughts now, Albus." She went to the door and opened it. "Tell me if you need anything."
"Thank you, Penelope," Albus said softly, and Sprout was gone.
He sat still for a moment, then opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a photograph. It was slightly faded and rather rumpled. It was a picture of Minerva at her graduation from Hogwarts. She was holding a bunch of roses Alastor Moody had given her and smiling widely. Albus stared at it for a moment, then thrust it into his pocket and went to get out his Pensieve.
The Pensieve was swirling with thoughts he had added to it that morning. He set it on his desk and stared down into it, then prodded it with his wand. The contents swirled faster. Piercing screams filled the room. In the Pensieve, Minerva was flat on her back, jerking and twitching, screaming in agony . . .
Albus quickly prodded the thoughts again with his wand. The image shattered, then pieced itself back together. But this time Minerva was still and silent. Too still and silent. Her flesh was so white . . .
Albus turned away, slightly nauseated. In a moment he went back to the Pensieve and looked into it again. It contained an image of Minerva, the brand of the Death Eaters obscenely dark on her left forearm. She dropped to her knees in a sickening gesture of worship, crawled forward, and pressed her lips to the hem of Voldemort's robes. Albus turned abruptly and left the room, now feeling definitely sick.
He went down to the Great Hall, where he met Peter Pomfrey, and the two of them sat and ate leftovers from dinner while they talked.
"Any idea where Voldemort is hiding out, Albus?" Peter asked.
Albus shook his head, his mouth full of steak and kidney pie.
"He's not in England, I don't think," Peter mused.
"You don't?" Albus raised his eyebrows.
"No. I don't. I think they're probably in Germany, or France still, or perhaps Ireland. Maybe Scotland."
"Wales?"
"Perhaps. I don't think they're on the other side of the world, by any means, but I also don't think they're very close to us. I think the Dark Lord would not like to be too close to you, for fear you might find him more easily."
Albus nodded. "What you say makes sense, Peter."
"Do you agree, then?"
"I'm not sure yet. But it does give me something to think about, for which I'm grateful." They went back to their food and ate in silence for a few more minutes. "I don't believe Voldemort is still in France," Albus said suddenly. "He knows I knew he was there. I don't think he would have stayed there. Germany, however . . . "
"Unfortunately there is nothing to say which of the other possibilities is the most likely is there?"
Albus sighed. "Unfortunately there is no information whatsoever."
* * *
Minerva groaned and tried to shift to a more comfortable position, which was fairly impossible considering that she was still chained to the wall and every cell of her body ached, smarted or hurt sharply, depending on what had happened to that part of her. She had been subjected to almost every form of torture the Death Eaters knew, and still had told them nothing. She wished they would just give up and kill her.
Don't think like that, Minerva McGonagall, she told herself. Albus will find you eventually. Just hold out until then.
She tried to ease her shoulders, but gasped as she moved. Tears came to her eyes, but she bit them back with an effort and tried to ignore the pain, staring stonily at the opposite wall. The pain could not be stomached entirely, however, and fear and hopelessness seemed to be rising in her throat in a lump that could not be swallowed.
* * *
Albus had gone into London for the day; there had been a meeting at the Ministry, and they had wanted him present. Now the meeting was over, and he was sitting across from Alastor Moody at a table in the Leaky Cauldron, sipping a glass of brandy.
"So," said Moody in his gravelly voice, "How long has it been since Minerva disappeared?"
"This is the fourth day," Albus said heavily. "And I am no closer to finding her than I was the evening she disappeared."
"Haven't your spies found anything yet?"
"Voldemort is hiding himself well. They have found nothing. There is a complete and depressing lack of information."
Moody shifted his weight on his chair and signalled for another brandy for his companion. "To be honest with you, Albus," he said. "The Ministry isn't doing too well either." Albus's brandy was set down in front of him. He picked it up and took a long, slow draught, feeling the strong alcohol burning down his throat. Moody took a drink from his hip flask and then held it up in front of him and gazed at it.
"But you have to find Minerva soon," he mused, "or there won't be anything left of her to find."
Albus choked, and it was only with difficulty that he managed to swallow his mouthful of brandy.
"We were involved once," Moody went on, "I even thought it might last forever. I guess I was wrong. I'd like to warn you, Albus, as a friend – " Moody leaned forward confidentially " - don't get too involved with Minerva. She ended everything we had just when I felt we were closest. I think she's a little scared to get serious with anyone for fear of them turning out like Tom Riddle."
There was a silence, during which Moody sat back and took another draught from his hip flask.
"What makes you think I want to get more involved with Minerva?" Albus said hoarsely.
Moody smiled, making his scarred and mutilated face look yet more twisted, and said simply, "I've known you a long time. I can tell."
"But I haven't – " Albus began, but Moody stood up to leave
"Look in your pocket, Albus," he said. He clapped the older man on the back and left the pub.
Albus put a hand into his pocket and came out with the photograph of Minerva he had found in his desk at Hogwarts. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up at Moody's retreating back, then back down at the photograph. It smiled happily and waved. Albus' tired blue eyes gazed down at it. Minerva's own eyes were sparkling, and she looked exteremly happy. She also looked, Albus thought, different somehow. He puzzled over this for a moment before realizing that there was an innocence about her in this picture that she had since lost. Now that he had acknowledged it, it seemed painfully obvious.
The girl in the picture seemed bright and happy, young and carefree. The last memory Albus had of the woman that girl had become was of her snapping at him for no reason that he was aware of, her mouth thinned in anger at the world, her dark eyes no longer sparkling but haunted by tradgedy. He gave a small, bitter chuckle. Certainly no one could call Minerva innocent now. He wondered a little at the curcumstances between Minerva and Moody. "She ended everything we had just when I thought we were closest." Albus uneasily pondered his feelings for this woman for a moment. He came to the conclusion that, while he still was not entirely sure whether it was the love of romantic passion or the love of a strong friendship, he loved her.
He looked down at the photograph again. It was no use mourning the loss of Minerva's innocence when he might very well have cause to mourn the loss of her life.