Chapter Five: Three Witches
The apartment was old-fashioned but not shabby, showing
signs of care in the decoration and cleanliness. Its high ceilings and large sash windows readily identified it as
part of a Georgian building, probably a conversion. The period furniture, discreet antiques and modest but original
watercolours hanging from the picture rails revealed its owner not only to have
good taste, but also the resources to indulge it. The property was substantial, with several well-proportioned
rooms and a large, graceful hallway, at present being paced in silent agitation
by a woman.
She was scarcely in her first flush of youth, but the
carefully tinted hair and well-cut clothes would have earned her second glances
from men a good deal younger – if her face were not showing every day of her
age in lines of worry and strain. Her
endless pacing threatened to wear a track in the carpet. Every now and then she would stop by a
closed doorway and reach out a tentative hand, only to snatch it back in
irritation and resume her restless motion.
Finally she stopped and leaned her forehead against the wall.
"Damned if I do and damned if I don't." she muttered under
her breath. Abruptly, she snatched a
black leather handbag from a small ornamental table and made for the front
door. Just as suddenly, she halted by
the closed door again, frozen in agonised indecision. She gave a trembling sigh and grasped the handle, turning it silently,
easing the door open a crack.
The room beyond was dark, daylight held at bay by drawn
curtains. From the doorway could be
seen fitted wardrobes, dressing table, chair and nightstand. The room was decorated in muted pastels,
with a distinctly feminine feel both to the curtains and to the covers of the
large double bed. Sprawled in a tangle
of bedclothes at its centre was a young man.
The woman gazed at him silently, noting that the sheets had ridden down
his body, leaving him naked to the waist.
Pale, flawless skin, almost hairless, just a faint, soft trail from his
navel, leading downwards until it disappeared under apricot Egyptian
cotton. So beautiful! She felt hunger reawaken but firmly checked
an almost overwhelming impulse to enter the room once again. As she watched he sighed in his sleep,
turning over on to his stomach, the half-light gleaming off his shoulders. His fair skin and blonde hair made him seem
translucent, somehow insubstantial against the whiteness of the sheets. Untouchable? In spirit, if not in flesh.
Vulnerable? Maybe. His body rose and fell in the deep, rhythmic
breaths of unconsciousness, and his limbs lay bonelessly in total relaxation.
If he remained undisturbed, the woman decided, he would not wake for a while:
she had been careful to ensure that, if nothing else. Cursing her own sentimental foolishness, she closed the door
quietly and resumed pacing, biting her fingernails with agitation. Giving way to the temptation to look at him
just once more had not helped her to make a decision.
"What to do? What to
do?" she moaned out loud, wringing her hands.
"Why did you have to come to me?
Wasn't there anyone else who could help you?" She paced a few more times.
Her fingers were bleeding. She
scarcely noticed.
"Sanctuary and information!" she began again in a hoarse
whisper. "That's not much to ask, now
is it? Not much! It will cost me my life if a whisper of this
gets out. I told you – sanctuary is
impossible, not against your father.
And what about the Ministry?
They scarcely believed my innocence over the Weasley girl – they're
still watching me, waiting for me to make one little slip. You owe me on that one, my boy! You really screwed us all over that: no
wonder your father wants your entrails as a wall hanging." She paused for breath.
"And why drag up old family tragedy that should have been
buried and forgotten long ago? Your
sister's long dead, she died in infancy.
What of? How should I know – I
didn't meet your father until you had left school. Since when am I an expert on the Malfoy family? No, I've no idea who could give you that
sort of information. You could always
try the family solicitor, hah, hah! Oh,
I forgot – you can't, you're on the run.
Oh, gods!" The woman buried her
face in her hands with a dry sob.
Presently she lifted her head and stiffened her spine. Obviously she had
come to some sort of decision. Quickly,
before she could change her mind again, she grabbed a calf-length leather coat
from the hall cupboard and struggled into it impatiently. She glanced once more at the occupied
bedroom door.
"I'm sorry." She whispered.
"I really am, but I just can't do this.
I've got my own life, my own safety to think of. I'm already between a rock and a hard place,
I can't afford to help you any more."
She left the flat swiftly and silently.
The figure in the bed continued his slumber for several more
minutes until the total silence in the apartment made it apparent that the
woman had indeed left the premises. He
then opened cautious, slitted eyes, turned over and lay on his back for a
while, fighting the almost irresistible urge to sleep. Presently he levered himself out of the bed
with difficulty, staggered naked and blinking to where his clothes lay in a
rough pile and fumbled for his wand.
"Enervate!"
he muttered, pointing the wand at his own chest. Immediately his body lost its sluggishness,
his eyes their heaviness. He
straightened slowly and replaced the wand in its holster.
"Oh, Octavia." He murmured to himself, shaking his head
regretfully, but his eyes were steely.
Twenty minutes later, having showered, dressed, and eaten
most of the meagre food supplies in the kitchen, the blonde young man shrugged
on a thick winter overcoat and let himself quietly out of the front door,
taking the stairs down to ground level.
In the vestibule, he stopped briefly by a row of postboxes. His eyes lingered on one in particular
labelled "O. Tenaxis, Theatrical Agent".
With nimble fingers, he extracted the small card from its holder,
crumpled it and deposited the remains in a nearby wastepaper bin. Somehow he didn't think she'd be needing it
again. He turned up his collar against
the falling snow and stepped out into the street.
~oo0oo~
"Oh, I'm just so fed up with being sick!" Hermione complained bitterly as she came out
of the bathroom for the fourth time that morning. Ron looked at her sympathetically, but he had come to realise
that to comment or make any kind of suggestion would only bring scorn and
contempt down upon his head for displaying typical male stupidity and
ignorance. He realised that Hermione
was taking it out on him because she had no other way of expressing her
frustration, and he did after all bear half the responsibility, even if he was
suffering none of the consequences – so far.
He slipped into the kitchen and started to make some tea. Presently he brought a tray through
containing a teapot, a single cup, a plate of dry toast, a pot of honey and the
owl post. Hermione, prostrate on the
sofa, smiled weakly.
"I'm a really awful patient, aren't I?" she sighed. Ron shrugged.
"You've just been unlucky." He replied diplomatically,
setting the tray down on a small table beside her. "Not that many women suffer sickness all day, every day. So I've read." She gave him a brief, bright smile.
"Have I ever told you how wonderful you are?" she said,
gazing up at him. He stroked her hair.
"Not recently, no."
She captured the stroking hand and brought it to her lips.
"Consider it said." She replied, "One hundred times at least."
Ron smiled, gave her a brief but warm farewell kiss and went to don his
cold weather gear before braving the elements.
He bore Hermione no ill will for her waspishness and was as patient a
helpmeet as any wife could wish for.
But he was terribly glad he could escape to work.
Hermione lay on the sofa fighting down nausea. Presently she sat up and poured herself a
cup of weak, black tea, grimacing at the metallic flavour. Another side-effect of pregnancy, she
thought sourly, is that nothing seems to taste right. She began on the toast, spreading it thinly
with honey and eating slowly to give her stomach time to adjust to holding its
contents. She sifted through the owl
post, putting aside the usual collection of scrolls from Chambers for her to
work on at home. On hearing of her
pregnancy, her employers had been so worried that she would give up work in
favour of full-time motherhood that they were bending over backwards to be
accommodating. Consequently, Hermione
was privileged to work on a consultancy basis but with full salary, and this
state of affairs would continue throughout her pregnancy, past the birth and
into the first year – more or less for as long as she wanted. All of which could be pretty enjoyable if
this sickness and fatigue would just pass away like it's supposed to … Hermione gritted her teeth and swallowed
hard, putting aside junk mail, bills, and a renewal of her subscription for
"The Necromancer" periodical. Her busy
hands froze on an unmarked scroll: a personal letter. Curious, she turned it around, looking for a return address: Los
Angeles. She smiled with real pleasure:
a letter from Neville was just what she needed to brighten her morning. She scanned it for news, absorbing the
salient points just as she did with legal documents.
It seemed that Sabrina and Harvey had finally set a date for
their wedding. More fool her,
thought Hermione, who would never have entertained the prospect of marrying a
muggle no matter how charming. Neville
was to be best man – Gosh, do they really know what they're letting
themselves in for? – and Valerie, the fourth housemate, was to be Maid of
Honour. Hmm, Hermione raised a
speculative eyebrow. Valerie seemed to
be getting quite a lot of press in this letter, rather more than usual. Hermione placed a private bet with herself that
the next communication they received from Neville would concern a rather more
personal involvement with the subject of matrimony.
Hermione put the letter aside to read in more detail
later. She took another bite of her
toast and opened The Daily Prophet, intending to take an overview of what was happening
in the wizarding world before starting work.
She had reached page two when a small article tucked at the bottom of
the page seemed to jump out at her:
WIZARDING AGENT FOUND DEAD
Well-known agent in the musical world, Octavia
Tenaxis, was yesterday found dead at her home.
Neighbours became concerned when owl post remained uncollected and
callers received no answer. Magical
Forensics have been at work for most of the day and an auror spokesperson said
that foul play has not been ruled out.
Hermione felt a strange prickling sensation down her
spine. Octavia Tenaxis – she had been
Ginny's agent, the one who might or might not have been involved with the scam
Draco Malfoy tried to pull last summer.
Hermione frowned: whether she really had been Draco's accomplice they
would probably now never know, but her death under suspicious circumstances
gave Hermione a peculiar feeling. She
fumbled for her wand, intending to firetalk Ginny before she went to work, but
paused before casting the spell. Was it
a good idea to bring up such a painful subject for such flimsy reasons? Did Ginny really want to know that Octavia
Tenaxis was dead, or would she be happier never hearing the name again? You're just jumping to conclusions,
Hermione told herself firmly. Even
if her death is suspicious, even if it does concern the Dark Side, there's no
reason to assume a connection with Ginny or Harry. She sighed and gave herself a stern lecture:
pregnancy's making you fanciful, woman: concentrate on fact and leave fiction
to the novelists.
That afternoon a very different Hermione was to be found
striding confidently into the main offices of the Ministry of Magic,
power-dressed in a smart grey muggle suit carrying an expensive leather
briefcase. The jacket of the suit
wouldn't quite meet over the bulge but apart from that, she looked every inch
the hotshot lawyer. Thirty minutes
later, she was inwardly grinding her teeth in frustration.
The meeting had been called by Arthur Weasley in order for
Hermione to present the results of the research she and Professor Ratcliffe had
been conducting over recent weeks with a view to assisting with The Mind-Meld
Problem, as it was rapidly becoming known.
Harry and Ginny were both present, as was Arthur Weasley and,
inevitably, the Head of Operations, Tantalus Brown. To their surprise, the Minister himself, Jeremy Wingford-Hill,
had diffidently requested to sit in on the meeting, but so far he had done
little other than observe.
"Is this really all you have, Dr. Granger?" Tantalus Brown was on top form this
afternoon: striding about the room, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat, neck
swelling like a turkeycock. Hermione
had to admit that she was disappointed their research had yielded so little in
terms of concrete evidence. Brown's
thick lips curved in a patronising smile.
"Allow me to correct you, my dear." He said, bowing
unctuously. "In my opinion, this is all
total nonsense, a complete fabrication and a waste of my valuable time." He paused to let the import of his words
sink in.
"A small amount of spurious research based on documents
which may or may not have any provenance and which are, in any case, of muggle
origin; a doubtful piece of so-called clairvoyance from a lady who evidently
has a future in forgery; and a few peripheral references which might
seem to back up this so-called prophecy from genuine wizarding archives …
"
"The graphological analysis confirmed Albus Dumbledore's
handwriting on ten out of ten counts," interjected Arthur smoothly. "And a disclosure charm has narrowed down
the age of the ink to a margin of three weeks.
Whatever this message is, it can't be easily dismissed: Dumbledore died
nearly six years ago." Tantalus Brown
frowned in irritation at the interruption.
"Yes, yes," he replied impatiently. "But does any of this really add up to
anything solid, anything concrete?" He
paused to bow again in Hermione's direction.
"My dear Dr. Granger, please forgive me but to a hard-bitten
politician, all this sounds at best very thin indeed. I realise that we have to make allowances for your condition –
I've heard pregnancy actually shrinks women's brains, you know." He winked at Arthur conspiratorily. "But I can see nothing whatsoever in this
afternoon's presentation to justify sending two people very much at risk from
the Dark Side, at Ministry expense, to the other side of the world where
contacts and backup are thin on the ground, to search for something that in all
likelihood never existed."
Hermione couldn't remember when she had last been so
insulted or so angry. Her research had
been meticulous and well-conducted, and there were no other leads to be had,
except from the Dark Side. What did
Brown expect her to do – pay a visit to Lucius Malfoy? She opened her mouth in furious protest but
bit back her words on feeling a light hand on her upper arm. She looked round to see Jeremy
Wingford-Hill, the Minister for Magic, give her a quick warning glance. Rather surprised, she subsided and waited to
see what he would do.
"Dr. Granger." He said, quietly. "Please correct me if I am wrong, but your researches into
ancient muggle archives from the island of Bali have uncovered a certain amount
of evidence …"
"Largely circumstantial." Interrupted Brown haughtily. Wingford-Hill continued as if the Head of
Operations had not spoken.
"Evidence which describes a sharing of consciousness between
two people resembling that which Mr. Potter shares with Miss Weasley. Is that correct?" Hermione nodded.
"Also, Professor Ratcliffe has found a number of peripheral
references in bona fide wizarding archives, yes?" Again, Hermione nodded.
"I believe two of these references mention a musical
instrument."
"That is correct, sir."
Wingford-Hill steepled his fingers.
"That isn't really a great deal to go on." He admitted,
eliciting a "Psha!" from
Tantalus Brown.
"However," he continued doggedly. "We have to consider carefully
the matter of Professor Trelawney's prophecy." Tantalus Brown exploded.
"I thought we'd pretty much eliminated that piece of
nonsense!" he said, spreading his hands wide.
"Jeremy, you can't be serious!
Trelawney's status is pretty much decided to every generation of
Hogwarts pupils for the past twenty years.
She's never had a valid prophecy yet!"
Grinning hugely, he pointed to Harry.
"Ask Potter!" he declared expansively. "Her multitude of predictions on his future
have been well-documented, and every one of them turned out to be a mare's
nest."
"That's not true!"
Unexpectedly, Ginny found herself leaping to the defence of one of her
least favourite Hogwarts professors.
"She predicted …" At that moment, Harry's foot pressed against hers
urgently, and she remembered that Peter Pettigrew's appearance at Hogwarts in
Harry's third year was still not generally known.
"… um … lots of things that have since some true." She
finished lamely and looked at the floor.
Wingford-Hill unexpectedly rallied to her support.
"I think you're being a little prejudiced there, Tantalus."
He said. "After all, Precognition is
one of the more unreliable branches of magic."
He ignored the snort of derision from his subordinate.
"It has to be said that the prophecy and Dr. Granger's
research give us the only leads we have." He continued. "It's not that we have a great deal to
choose from. We may be grasping at
straws, but ultimately straws are all we have." He sat back in his chair.
"I'm going to recommend that Harry and Ginny go on a liaison
visit to our embassy in Singapore." He announced. "They should be able to garner a little more information
there. I'd be grateful if you would owl
their research department with your findings, Dr. Granger." Hermione stared then nodded quickly
"If the Singapore Office can come up with any leads, then I
suggest you go on to Bali from there." He told Harry. "If not, then I guess it must be back to the drawing board." Ginny gaped.
"Singapore?" she exclaimed.
"Why on earth should be go there?"
Harry put his hand on her arm.
"It's the nearest place to the Indonesian islands where we
have any real backup." He explained.
"It's highly westernised there, very well-organised, and we have a
proper wizard embassy." Ginny looked
dubious, but Harry grinned broadly.
"And we can go watch The Swifts practising!" he told
her. "Oliver's on hiatus with them –
remember?"
"But – but – " spluttered Brown, totally wrong-footed. "This is utter nonsense! We can't justify the risk! Wizarding folk are very thin on the ground
in Indonesia – as least, our sort are – the Dark Side will be tracking every
move they make. They'd be sitting
targets!"
"Tantalus has a point." The Minister broke in smoothly. "Harry, you're going to need some
backup. Any suggestions?" Harry, caught on the hop, said the first
name that came into his head – which happened to be Fred.
"Out of the question!" Brown was adamant. "Used to be good, I'll grant you, but he's
unstable, unreliable. No offence meant,
of course." Huffing slightly, Brown
nodded apologetically in Arthur's direction.
Arthur politely ignored him, but inside he was seething. Wingford-Hill was still looking
questioningly at Harry. Harry stroked
his lip with his index finger thoughtfully: George had no local knowledge and
could be a liability when ignorant; Lee, although good in a pinch, had no field
experience; and Harry was unwilling to drag Ron away from Hermione at this
time, even if he was the ideal choice.
"There's a good man in C Division." Brown was
beginning. Harry winced: no way was he going
on a mission with one of Brown's cronies.
"If I might make a suggestion?" Wingford-Hill's light, diffident voice somehow cut through with
ease. "I understand that our man in Merida, Sirius
Black, has had some experience in Indonesia.
Perhaps he would be willing to join you?" Harry grinned in relief.
Next to Ron, Sirius was the one you wanted guarding your six when you
went into the unknown! Tantalus Brown
looked annoyed.
"Only one man as backup? Surely you're going to want more than
that." Harry recognised the truth of
that statement, but his mind had by now come up to speed. He smiled slowly.
"Oh, I think I know who I want as the fourth
member of my team." He said quietly.
~oo0oo~
The cell was light and airy, small but fairly clean, and –
best of all – empty. The single
occupant was in solitary confinement.
Not through undue violence or threatening behaviour, that was not her modus
operandi. Her past cellmates had
all, without exception, had to be transferred to St. Mungo's – no one knew
why. The management had ceased to
assign other inmates to share her cell after the fifth left Azkaban wrapped in
a straightjacket, screaming like a banshee.
There were still two bunk beds in the room, two desks, two
chairs and one washbasin firmly fixed to the wall. Suspended from a metal strut forming part of the upper bunk, a
woman hung from one arm. Carefully and
slowly, second by torturous second, the woman flexed and extended her arm,
raising and lowering herself, never allowing her toes to touch the floor. Beads of sweat ran down her smooth
olive-skinned face, soaking into her loose-fitting sleeveless vest. Damp patches began to form on the khaki
cotton of her prison-issue fatigues, but she continued impassively to a count
of fifty. Pausing to regain her breath,
her feet still treading air, she transferred her weight to the other arm and
began the exercise again. This movement
turned her body one hundred and eighty degrees so that she now faced the door.
Voices sounded from the corridor. Swiftly moving footsteps grew nearer, along with snatches of
conversation. The impassive face
betrayed no knowledge of their presence.
" … check her out anyway.
We just can't keep high-risk prisoners under these circumstances any
more."
"That Ministry guy all but promised me there would be an
enquiry after the last incident!"
"If just one of these babies was to escape …"
"Ah, don't even think about it – I don't want to know."
The inspection grill rattled, a pair of eyes flashed into
view. The woman hung, still suspended
by her right arm, the only indication of effort being a slightly elevated rate
of respiration.
"Miss Valentin." A slightly nervous, almost respectful voice
came from outside the door. The woman
ignored it.
"Miss Valentin," he persisted. "You have been called for your monthly physical. The doctor is waiting for you. Come down from the bed now and step away
from the door."
The woman levelled burning dark eyes at the inspection
hatch, but gave no further indication that she had even heard the request. A patient sigh followed and a quiet aside:
"Frankly, I think this one's only here because St. Mungo's
refused to have her. You really have to
be persistent to get anything through, you know?" The women gave no outward sign of having understood any of this
either, but a single muscle in her jaw twitched slightly. Flexing her right arm, she landed lightly on
the floor of the cell, her rubber-soled shoes absorbing most of the shock. She waited passively while the door was
unlocked and allowed herself to be led away down the corridor with a total lack
of resistance. The two prison officers
looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
"You'd think she was as mild as milk, wouldn't you?"
commented one, speaking around the woman's shoulder. His colleague nodded, frowning.
"I must admit, I can't see anything as would worry me
unduly," he replied. "But these Dark
ones are unpredictable. Some of the
ones in my usual wing would use the Unforgiveables on me as soon as blink, if
they could get hold of a wand to do it.
It's just as well we don't carry the things – they'd be more of a curse
than a blessing."
"Too right!" the other gave a short bark of laughter. "They
don't even know what this one can do.
She didn't have regular training, you know. Grew up in Mexico and learned Dark Magic from childhood. Good thing there aren't many like her
around!" Making noises of agreement,
the two officers continued to shepherd the woman towards the Infirmary.
As she took slow, measured strides along the bare stone
floor, the woman pushed her dark, sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes and allowed
a small, ironic smile to touch her mouth fleetingly. These two buffoons thought they knew everything about her – how
ridiculous when their much-vaunted masters had not even the smallest inkling of
her abilities. True – having her wand
confiscated had severely limited what she could achieve within these walls, but
she was certainly not helpless, nor had the months of mindless tedium weakened
her resolve. She knew who was
responsible for her incarceration, and she had every intention of making him
pay – with his life. He had betrayed
her, and at the end he had reviled and humiliated her. She would tolerate his existence no
further. This physical exam had fallen
at exactly the right time for her purposes.
For Katia Valentin, the weeks of endurance and patience were about to
pay off. Now she had a chance of revenge.
~oo0oo~
