The iron gates of Azkaban
were the first line of shadow that separated the living from the dead.
They were the closest Laura Ranone had ever been to the wizard prison.
Beyond their bars, an empty courtyard stretched to a massive fortress,
and there was no sound. To Ranone, it was not silence as silence occurred
in the world, but one cry, one scream swallowed into writhing emptiness.
The iron gates of Azkaban were all that stood between the bright day
and a cold void.
Laura felt a ridiculous urge to touch the bars. Was Paul there? Did he suffer?
"This way," came a voice, accompanied by a tap on her shoulder. The light touch drew her back into the world. Her expression must have betrayed the fact she had left it in the first place, for the guard gave her a quizzical look as he turned and put his hand to the seam where both gates met. They lacked any lock, which hardly surprised Ranone. She watched as the wizard's lips, which were as lined as the rest of his face, moved in a silent incantation. After several heartbeats, the gates swung inward without so much as a creak. The wizard stood back and nodded.
"Straight through to the doors," he instructed, pointing at the fortress. "Show your papers to the Warden."
"Thank you," she said over her shoulder absently, stepping into the courtyard.
"Don't!" Something in his voice jerked her sharply around. The guard's eyes smoldered with warning, and Laura's back stiffened. "Don't go past the lobby without the Warden."
She was a bit slower in turning her shoulders this time. "I won't. Thank you."
The walk across the grounds unnerved her. The attorney was sure that the temperature dropped as she neared the prison; enough to make her shiver, but not so sharply that she could be sure it wasn't only her imagination. Her stomach was certainly curling into apprehension by the time she reached the (surprisingly) modern double doors. There was no witch or wizard to meet her. Ranone frowned and glanced about before reaching out and grabbing a handle.
"State your business."
Laura started backwards, demonstrating just how frayed her nerves were. She stared at the door handle, which had turned into a talking mouth. "I'm here for Percy Weasley," she told it firmly, even a bit aggressively. The door was silent for a moment.
"Name?"
"Laura Ranone."
A longer silence, then the doors, too, opened of their own accord, revealing nothing beyond but inky blackness. "Welcome to Azkaban!" she saw the handle chirp with a Chesire-like grin before it swung out of view. She stood where she was dumbly, torn between hysterical laughter and a definite disinclination to cross that threshold. Thank you, do I get complimentary peanuts? she thought, steeling herself. With the unsettling thought that the only reason she was entering of her own will was because she would be coming out, she stepped into the dark.
The black swirled. Deep cold touched her very bones, but as soon as it became unbearable, it vanished, leaving her in a generic-looking lobby, complete with chairs lined along the walls and a table of magazines. She looked around, disconcerted, before focusing on the round spectacles of a rail-thin man. "You're Laura Ranone?" he inquired as he approached, surveying her in a critical, yet weary manner.
"Yes," she replied, summoning up the disarming smile she had spent years developing. "I need to see the Warden, please."
"That's me. Mr. Weasley on counsel leave, correct?"
"Correct." As she reached into her witch's robes (worn to conceal Muggle clothing, for obvious reasons), the nagging sense of uneasiness increased--the waiting room held no fellow occupants, and the very walls seemed somehow warped; almost sagging. There was no door that she could see beyond the Warden's shoulder or to either side. "This is the court order...and here's the letter from the Minister."
The Warden took the papers and examined them. Laura watched the wizard carefully. He seemed younger than her, a good deal younger, which was why the age in his smooth face perplexed her greatly. That must be what working in this hellhole does to you, she thought, pressing her lips together briefly. "All right," he said curtly. "Follow me."
Ranone blinked. "Is that necessary?"
"I was told to bring you personally in," he replied without turning around. Ranone walked after him, stopping by his shoulder in front of a solid wall. He glanced at her and conceded, "It is unusual," while drawing his wand and pointing it at the wall's base. "Engorgio."
The attorney frowned, confused, before seeing the tiny, tiny door that was gradually growing up and out across the stones. The Warden took a step back when it stopped. Laura followed suit. The door had grown to a height much too tall to be practical. Suddenly, it flew open. The same cold swept over her again, a hundred times more intense. Ranone shrank back, feeling her mind recoil as well. It was as though icy hands and icy thoughts crawled over and through her skin, inspiring a fear as primal as a child's terror of the dark. Something towered in that empty doorway, something that watched her with dreadful, hungry patience. Laura recovered her composure with some effort, in time to see the Warden wave his hand at something invisible.
"Wh...what was that?" she stammered.
The other turned and raised an eyebrow. "A Dementor," he replied, as if it were the most evident thing in the world.
"...oh."
The Warden's perplexed expression remained for another second before he turned to lead her in. Laura bit her lip, feeling discomfort flush beneath her fear. "Wait." She stepped forward and touched his shoulder on the threshold. "I can't see them. You'll have to guide me through. I'm a Squib," she explained bluntly when he only stared at her in consternation.
"I see," he said briskly, averting his eyes, but not before Laura saw their shock. "Come along, then."
They entered the depths of Azkaban. At first, all seemed black. Ranone could see nothing and feel nothing but the Warden's hand at her elbow. The icy fist in her chest had relented, but her heart still pounded against it. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim light that illuminated the stone dungeon they were in. The Warden was leading her down a very wide corridor, very wide and very empty but for the cells that lined both sides of it. In them were the prisoners. Laura made a conscious effort to look straight ahead, but she could not stop her ears against the occasional moan or cry or incoherent babbling. Still, hearing those noises was better than the unbearable silence that came from some of the cells. Once, she allowed herself to glance towards one, only to look into the face of a wizard who's expression was horrifyingly empty.
"Look out," the Warden said, jerking her to one side. Ranone took a step for her balance, glancing about uneasily. She almost wished she could see the Dementors; anything to give that gaze of the shadows a form. Stories of the Dementor's Kiss flashed through her mind. Unconsciously, she drew closer to the Warden. "It's all right," she heard him say, and looked up in surprise to see an understanding expression soften the indifferent face, ever-so-slightly. "You're safe as long as I'm with you." Laura smiled weakly and nodded. "We're almost there," he added, trying to distract her with conversation, "just another minute. So, you're a Squib, are you?"
"Yes," she replied, flinching as a wizard began to shriek. "My God, why does he want me in here?" she muttered under her breath, referring to Fudge. She received her answer within her next breath, as her guide pulled her to a stop and turned towards one of the cells. They must have reached Percy. Laura steeled herself and turned to follow the Warden, then choked. Behind the bars of the neighboring chamber, a pale, haggard face lifted in the far back corner. The eyes that met hers were a light brown, empty one moment and filled with torturous recognition the next. Ranone's teeth tore through the skin of her lip. It was Paul.
Rushing blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sound of Percy's door screeching open. Her mouth went completely dry when Paul dragged himself to his feet, staring at her in a kind of distant surprise, a pathetic hope. It was fortunate that he did not walk forward; she didn't know what she might have done then. As it was, she could only stand rooted and stare at how horribly thin he had become in his months of imprisonment. Filthy robes hung from an almost emaciated frame; his hair hung nearly to his shoulders. Laura reached up to wipe the blood from her lip, only to feel her hand shaking.
Her little brother slowly reached out to her, as though every inch of movement was an effort. The sleeve of that arm fell back and somehow, somehow in the darkness of Azkaban, Laura clearly saw the Dark Mark branded into skin. Cruel claws dragged themselves over her chest, accompanying the numb, humming buzz behind her eyes. It was with a silent but wracking sob that she forced herself to look away and stumble after the Warden into Percy's cell.
The wizard had her client by the arm, whose head was bowed so that only his red hair could be seen. "What's wrong?" he inquired, re-settling his glasses as he peered at her. Ranone licked her lips and tasted salt. She must have begun to cry. She shook her head and forced a smile, its credulity supported now only by years and years of practice. Rather than reply, she turned the part of her mind that still obeyed to Percy Weasley. The boy, who had been gangly when she had first seen him, was now no better off than Paul. His shoulder blades jutted out from beneath tattered robes, and his pale skin was pasty beneath the grime. But when he lifted his head and met her gaze, there was life in his eyes and defiance in his face.
Laura felt her lips fall open the slightest bit, amazed. "Out," she snapped suddenly, the finest thread of control keeping her voice from breaking. Paul's eyes burned into her side like the edge of a knife. "Get him out of here."
****
Another letter came from Malfoy in the afternoon. Quick flashes of different emotions furrowed Harry's brow as he untied the envelope from Black Speck's leg. "I should probably learn your name," he told Draco's owl, setting out Hedwig's food and water for him before sitting down on his bed.
Harry had not expected a reply this prompt, or any reply at all, for that matter. Still, he felt absurdly pleased. The handwriting was less stiff this time, closer to what he had glimpsed of Draco's school parchments, but the Malfoy dragon crest was missing. His eyes flicked to the empty space on the envelope before he split it open and slid the contents out. There was actually more than twenty words on the parchment this time.
Laura felt a ridiculous urge to touch the bars. Was Paul there? Did he suffer?
"This way," came a voice, accompanied by a tap on her shoulder. The light touch drew her back into the world. Her expression must have betrayed the fact she had left it in the first place, for the guard gave her a quizzical look as he turned and put his hand to the seam where both gates met. They lacked any lock, which hardly surprised Ranone. She watched as the wizard's lips, which were as lined as the rest of his face, moved in a silent incantation. After several heartbeats, the gates swung inward without so much as a creak. The wizard stood back and nodded.
"Straight through to the doors," he instructed, pointing at the fortress. "Show your papers to the Warden."
"Thank you," she said over her shoulder absently, stepping into the courtyard.
"Don't!" Something in his voice jerked her sharply around. The guard's eyes smoldered with warning, and Laura's back stiffened. "Don't go past the lobby without the Warden."
She was a bit slower in turning her shoulders this time. "I won't. Thank you."
The walk across the grounds unnerved her. The attorney was sure that the temperature dropped as she neared the prison; enough to make her shiver, but not so sharply that she could be sure it wasn't only her imagination. Her stomach was certainly curling into apprehension by the time she reached the (surprisingly) modern double doors. There was no witch or wizard to meet her. Ranone frowned and glanced about before reaching out and grabbing a handle.
"State your business."
Laura started backwards, demonstrating just how frayed her nerves were. She stared at the door handle, which had turned into a talking mouth. "I'm here for Percy Weasley," she told it firmly, even a bit aggressively. The door was silent for a moment.
"Name?"
"Laura Ranone."
A longer silence, then the doors, too, opened of their own accord, revealing nothing beyond but inky blackness. "Welcome to Azkaban!" she saw the handle chirp with a Chesire-like grin before it swung out of view. She stood where she was dumbly, torn between hysterical laughter and a definite disinclination to cross that threshold. Thank you, do I get complimentary peanuts? she thought, steeling herself. With the unsettling thought that the only reason she was entering of her own will was because she would be coming out, she stepped into the dark.
The black swirled. Deep cold touched her very bones, but as soon as it became unbearable, it vanished, leaving her in a generic-looking lobby, complete with chairs lined along the walls and a table of magazines. She looked around, disconcerted, before focusing on the round spectacles of a rail-thin man. "You're Laura Ranone?" he inquired as he approached, surveying her in a critical, yet weary manner.
"Yes," she replied, summoning up the disarming smile she had spent years developing. "I need to see the Warden, please."
"That's me. Mr. Weasley on counsel leave, correct?"
"Correct." As she reached into her witch's robes (worn to conceal Muggle clothing, for obvious reasons), the nagging sense of uneasiness increased--the waiting room held no fellow occupants, and the very walls seemed somehow warped; almost sagging. There was no door that she could see beyond the Warden's shoulder or to either side. "This is the court order...and here's the letter from the Minister."
The Warden took the papers and examined them. Laura watched the wizard carefully. He seemed younger than her, a good deal younger, which was why the age in his smooth face perplexed her greatly. That must be what working in this hellhole does to you, she thought, pressing her lips together briefly. "All right," he said curtly. "Follow me."
Ranone blinked. "Is that necessary?"
"I was told to bring you personally in," he replied without turning around. Ranone walked after him, stopping by his shoulder in front of a solid wall. He glanced at her and conceded, "It is unusual," while drawing his wand and pointing it at the wall's base. "Engorgio."
The attorney frowned, confused, before seeing the tiny, tiny door that was gradually growing up and out across the stones. The Warden took a step back when it stopped. Laura followed suit. The door had grown to a height much too tall to be practical. Suddenly, it flew open. The same cold swept over her again, a hundred times more intense. Ranone shrank back, feeling her mind recoil as well. It was as though icy hands and icy thoughts crawled over and through her skin, inspiring a fear as primal as a child's terror of the dark. Something towered in that empty doorway, something that watched her with dreadful, hungry patience. Laura recovered her composure with some effort, in time to see the Warden wave his hand at something invisible.
"Wh...what was that?" she stammered.
The other turned and raised an eyebrow. "A Dementor," he replied, as if it were the most evident thing in the world.
"...oh."
The Warden's perplexed expression remained for another second before he turned to lead her in. Laura bit her lip, feeling discomfort flush beneath her fear. "Wait." She stepped forward and touched his shoulder on the threshold. "I can't see them. You'll have to guide me through. I'm a Squib," she explained bluntly when he only stared at her in consternation.
"I see," he said briskly, averting his eyes, but not before Laura saw their shock. "Come along, then."
They entered the depths of Azkaban. At first, all seemed black. Ranone could see nothing and feel nothing but the Warden's hand at her elbow. The icy fist in her chest had relented, but her heart still pounded against it. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim light that illuminated the stone dungeon they were in. The Warden was leading her down a very wide corridor, very wide and very empty but for the cells that lined both sides of it. In them were the prisoners. Laura made a conscious effort to look straight ahead, but she could not stop her ears against the occasional moan or cry or incoherent babbling. Still, hearing those noises was better than the unbearable silence that came from some of the cells. Once, she allowed herself to glance towards one, only to look into the face of a wizard who's expression was horrifyingly empty.
"Look out," the Warden said, jerking her to one side. Ranone took a step for her balance, glancing about uneasily. She almost wished she could see the Dementors; anything to give that gaze of the shadows a form. Stories of the Dementor's Kiss flashed through her mind. Unconsciously, she drew closer to the Warden. "It's all right," she heard him say, and looked up in surprise to see an understanding expression soften the indifferent face, ever-so-slightly. "You're safe as long as I'm with you." Laura smiled weakly and nodded. "We're almost there," he added, trying to distract her with conversation, "just another minute. So, you're a Squib, are you?"
"Yes," she replied, flinching as a wizard began to shriek. "My God, why does he want me in here?" she muttered under her breath, referring to Fudge. She received her answer within her next breath, as her guide pulled her to a stop and turned towards one of the cells. They must have reached Percy. Laura steeled herself and turned to follow the Warden, then choked. Behind the bars of the neighboring chamber, a pale, haggard face lifted in the far back corner. The eyes that met hers were a light brown, empty one moment and filled with torturous recognition the next. Ranone's teeth tore through the skin of her lip. It was Paul.
Rushing blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sound of Percy's door screeching open. Her mouth went completely dry when Paul dragged himself to his feet, staring at her in a kind of distant surprise, a pathetic hope. It was fortunate that he did not walk forward; she didn't know what she might have done then. As it was, she could only stand rooted and stare at how horribly thin he had become in his months of imprisonment. Filthy robes hung from an almost emaciated frame; his hair hung nearly to his shoulders. Laura reached up to wipe the blood from her lip, only to feel her hand shaking.
Her little brother slowly reached out to her, as though every inch of movement was an effort. The sleeve of that arm fell back and somehow, somehow in the darkness of Azkaban, Laura clearly saw the Dark Mark branded into skin. Cruel claws dragged themselves over her chest, accompanying the numb, humming buzz behind her eyes. It was with a silent but wracking sob that she forced herself to look away and stumble after the Warden into Percy's cell.
The wizard had her client by the arm, whose head was bowed so that only his red hair could be seen. "What's wrong?" he inquired, re-settling his glasses as he peered at her. Ranone licked her lips and tasted salt. She must have begun to cry. She shook her head and forced a smile, its credulity supported now only by years and years of practice. Rather than reply, she turned the part of her mind that still obeyed to Percy Weasley. The boy, who had been gangly when she had first seen him, was now no better off than Paul. His shoulder blades jutted out from beneath tattered robes, and his pale skin was pasty beneath the grime. But when he lifted his head and met her gaze, there was life in his eyes and defiance in his face.
Laura felt her lips fall open the slightest bit, amazed. "Out," she snapped suddenly, the finest thread of control keeping her voice from breaking. Paul's eyes burned into her side like the edge of a knife. "Get him out of here."
Another letter came from Malfoy in the afternoon. Quick flashes of different emotions furrowed Harry's brow as he untied the envelope from Black Speck's leg. "I should probably learn your name," he told Draco's owl, setting out Hedwig's food and water for him before sitting down on his bed.
Harry had not expected a reply this prompt, or any reply at all, for that matter. Still, he felt absurdly pleased. The handwriting was less stiff this time, closer to what he had glimpsed of Draco's school parchments, but the Malfoy dragon crest was missing. His eyes flicked to the empty space on the envelope before he split it open and slid the contents out. There was actually more than twenty words on the parchment this time.
Potter,
I'm well. The owl's name is Damion; he was my eleventh birthday present. The dragon is on my arm right now. Actually, it feels quite comfortable, like a cool massage that almost tingles. The holiday is going more or less smoothly, it's much quieter around the house without my father. Well, it's always been quiet, but now it feels empty. Mother is busy paying people to keep quiet about how he died.
I really don't know what else to write. I guess I'll
send another letter when I think of something. Potter, don't write me back.
Just return Damion with a mark on his talon. Or something. It's not safe
for you to write back.
Draco Malfoy
P.S. Yes, it's Russian. It reads, "The House of the Dragon/Upon
Great Wings Soar."Harry was unconsciously mirroring the expression of certain adults by the time he finished reading, one eyebrow arched. "What...?" It was not safe to reply. For him, or for Draco? This had to have something to do with the missing family seal. He frowned at the parchment in his fingers for a time, thinking. There was only one explanation that could be wrung out of the situation, and it was an extremely unpleasant one: the late Lucius Malfoy's employers were now trying to recruit his son. Harry did not have much to go on, but he was willing to bet that certain Death Eaters were paying visits and dropping letters, and that Draco's correspondences were being monitored. Why, then, would he risk owling Harry to begin with?
"God!" Harry threw the letter to the ground and went to his window, which he pushed his forehead against. The glass was not as cool as he had hoped. He wanted to cry out of frustration. Some part of him was elated that Malfoy was writing to him, was even taking a risk to write to him; another part of him was just as confused. Running beneath it all was a cold, gut-twisting fear, no less intense than his worry for Sirius or Ron had been. He owed Draco Malfoy his life. Ancient magic dictated that he also cared for him as a brother.
Pride and old habit offered just enough resistance to torture him.
If I didn't know better...it's almost like he's talking to me to try and keep a grasp on things. Harry's eyes slowly opened to the suburban neighborhood outside. Like I'm all that's keeping him from following his father.
It was an absurd idea. It was a frightening idea. It sent his flesh into goosebumps, because he knew it was true. Here was a chance to do something that perhaps even Albus Dumbledore could not: save Draco. And it was not only a chance, it was his responsibility. Harry's fingers curled around the windowsill. He had to keep in touch with the other boy. This narrow channel was the only one through which he could exert any influence on Malfoy until school began. "No," he whispered, "No, you can't join them." Harry had already shared the bond of wizard's debt with one Death Eater. He was not looking to do it again.
After a moment's deliberation, he picked up a pen and walked to Damion (formerly known as Black Specks) who stood cooperatively enough as Harry scratched, "Keep writing," in small but legible print on its leg. He carried Damion to the window, opening it with one hand. "Go on," he said, pushing against the air with his arm. The owl took off from his wrist. Harry watched him shrink to a small dot in the sky before sighing and retreating back into his room. He scooped up the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and knelt down to pry up the loose floorboard. The shine of smooth wood caught his eye as he tucked the parchment in among everything else.
Harry's eyes hardened. He had made up his mind this morning, and there was no use in putting it off any longer. Books and bags of stashed food shifted as he pulled the box from out beneath them. His mother's name stared up at him from the lid, and Harry could swear that he felt a beckon to open it. He had to open it. A glance at the door to make sure it was locked was his only hesitation before he drew his wand and pointed it at the lock. "Alohamora."
With that one command, Harry Potter damned the Ministry and every rule the wizarding world had ever imposed upon him.
He heard no click; the lid did not open on its hinges. The box remained stubbornly ordinary. Harry reached out to test the lock. The moment his fingers touched, a golden light filled the space between the lid and the body of the box. The wood became unbearably hot, forcing Harry to snatch his hands back, nearly burned. He watched with wide eyes as Lily Evans disappeared, to be replaced by smaller, glowing lines of script:
And nought but in close blood confide
Three drops to prove you are of kin
Black of hair or green of eye
The words seemed to throb in the grain of the wood. Apparently Lily had taken more than one precaution. Slowly, as though in a dream, Harry felt for the rough line of a scab on the back of his hand. The flesh had nearly healed over since the night he had first found the box by scraping against the metal tab in the cupboard, which made peeling it open again all the more painful. He hissed through his teeth as his fingernails began picking under the scab, then ripped it off in one movement. Blood welled quickly to the surface. Harry frowned in uncertainty before holding his hand over top the box and squeezing the surrounding skin. One, two, three drops of crimson fell onto the lid, sizzling viciously upon contact. The light from within the box glowed red before throbbing back into darkness.
The words of the spell disappeared and his mother's name returned. Harry stared, aware of his heart beating hard against his ribs. With cautious fingers, he grazed the lock. It was cool to touch. When he tried the lid, it rose smoothly on its hinges and fell back. Harry sucked in his breath. "Oh my God."
Parchments. Muggle notebook paper. They nearly spilled over the edges of the box. All were covered in lines upon lines of slanted, compact handwriting. His mother's handwriting. Harry picked up the first yellowed parchment and gently smoothed it out. There, in rich blank ink, were Lily Evans's first words to her son.
To Whom it May Concern:
"Do you want anything?" offered Laura anxiously as she
ushered Percy into her office at the Ministry. In her earlier years, she
had spent more of her days here than at her apartment, and so the space was
well-furnished with a small refrigerator and couch in addition to the standard
office furniture. She guided her client to the latter before opening the
former. "I have some crackers, juice, water...fruit..."
"No, thank you," said Percy faintly, drawing on some hidden reserve of will to be polite. Laura raised her head and looked at him. In the brighter light of the office she could clearly see how months in Azkaban had eaten away at the boy. His eyes were hollow and haunted and slightly sunken. The bags underneath them were bruises against pasty, dirty skin. The Weasley red hair was lank and dull, hanging limply past his chin. Hunched over into himself on the sofa, Laura could hardly believe that he was six inches taller than herself. He avoided looking straight at her, and looked at everything else in a dazed manner. Ranone's lips pinched together. She walked to his side and grabbed his upper arm (which was nearly as thin as her forearm) gently but firmly.
"Up." Percy glanced up in distant alarm but complied. Laura led him to the back of the room behind her desk, where a door stood. Beyond it was one of the many favors Frank and Amanda Longbottom had done for her: a bathroom complete with toilet, shower, and sink. They had magically installed it for her several days after the Ministry had assigned her to Percy's defense. It had come in handy many times, as Ranone's prediction of long nights at work proved devastatingly accurate. "Wash up," she told him, "Use anything you need and take your time."
She nudged Percy over the threshold and closed the door after him. After a few minutes, while she was preparing a snack of oranges and crackers, the shower began to run. She felt a stab of angry satisfaction. If the poor boy was to be out of that hellhole they called a prison for a week, she was going to make it a week that would sustain him until he was let out again for the trial, beginning with giving him proper food. She doubted that Azkaban fed inmates fresh fruit or vegetables--if they fed them at all.
Paul's skeletal hand reaching out to her flashed across Ranone's eyes. She clenched her fist even as a sudden tear slid down her cheek. There was no doubt in her mind that Fudge had specifically ordered that she be brought into Azkaban for his own childish, petty satisfaction. He was probably still fuming over how a request for Percy's leave on counsel had slipped by him in the form of a court order.
Now Ranone was more determined than ever to make Fudge sorry he had tried to use her as a pawn.
A cursory knock at her office door made Laura look up from peeling the last orange. Her secretary had poked his head inside. "Ms. Ranone? Arthur Weasley and his children are in the conference room. They don't have an appointment." He tossed a glance in the direction of the running water. "Should I tell them you're busy...?"
Laura once again commended herself for finding a secretary who was the epitome of discretion. She hesitated. "No, that's all right," she told him. "I'll be out in a minute."
Abner raised an eyebrow but nodded and withdrew. Ranone poured out a glass of water, placed it by the plate of food, and went to the bathroom door. The water stopped just as her knuckles rapped against it. "Percy?" she called. No answer. "Percy, there's food on the table. Help yourself; it's all yours. If you're still hungry, everything in the 'fridge is yours, too. I'm going to be out of the room for about ten minutes or so."
There was a pause. "Okay."
"Okay." Something tugged at her heart. She leaned back against the door again. "Hey, Percy? You're safe here now. Just stay in this office and you're safe, understand?"
"Okay," he replied. There were tears in his voice. Laura squeezed her eyes shut and let her weight fall against the door for a moment before pulling herself together and leaving the office.
Arthur Weasley and two of his children were sitting at the long table in the conference room. All three looked up as she quietly stepped in. Ranone's gaze immediately caught on the girl. The Weasleys had only one girl, and that was Ginny. So this was the subject of the damned prophecy that had been pestering her night and day--or rather, the subject she would try to disprove to the others. The taller boy had to be one of her brothers. He looks about Harry's age. Ron, probably.
Arthur stood. So you're the one spearheading Ministry resistance to Fudge, thought Laura grimly, noticing flecks of grey in the older man's red hair. Bravo. Is it true? Is the Department of Mysteries really backing you, or are those only rumors?
"Is he there?" The Head of the Muggle Artifacts Department rushed forward as though he would seize her hand. "Where is he? I need to see him." Laura felt pity wash over her when she saw how worn his face was; how desperately his eyes fixed upon hers. She stepped back and held up her hand.
"He's fine," she said firmly, "He's resting now."
"Let me see him," begged Arthur.
"You have to!" Ginny came up behind her father, eyes flashing. "You have to!"
"Please," added the boy from the table. Laura glanced at him, then did a faint double-take. There was a horrible look on his face, as though he would be sick at any moment. She suddenly remembered hearing through her own channels how Fudge's lackeys had tried to coerce each of the children into testifying against her client, threatening Ron Weasley at the last with Percy's imprisonment in Azkaban if he did not cooperate. Yes, then this had to be Ron. She felt her expression soften.
"Mr. Weasley, please," she said, placing her hand on his elbow and guiding him back to the table. She did not sit, and neither did he. "Your son is as healthy as can be expected--healthier, actually. I understand you want to see him, but I cannot allow that. It's not my choice," she added when she saw the beginnings of anger in his face, "There are certain rules I must abide by when taking a client from Azkaban for counsel. He is not to leave this building, and he is not to see anyone not authorized to see him."
"That's my brother!" exploded Ron, shooting out of his chair. Ranone was startled to see he stood as tall as Percy, if not taller. "That's his son! We don't need to be bloody authorized!"
"Ron...!" Weasley's rebuke was half-hearted.
Ron fell silent, seething, feeling his cheeks flame. He exchanged an angry glance with Ginny. Percy's lawyer gave him an understanding look, one that relaxed Ron despite himself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, all of you," she said sincerely. "I of course will try to get your entire family authorized as soon as possible. You have to realize, breaking the law at this point would only hurt Percy, not help him."
Arthur stared helplessly at Ranone. "Yes," he managed faintly, his voice strained, "I understand."
"I can take a message to him, though."
The older man took an unsteady breath. "Just...just tell him that we love him."
Ron's fists clenched. He could see the door behind Ranone. It would be so easy to run past her and find Percy. He needed to see his brother, he needed to see that he was alive. A hand in the crook of his arm made him look down. Ginny met his gaze and shook her head. Ron bit his lip hard, turning his eyes to the ground. He faintly heard Ranone promise to keep in touch; his dad thanking her and telling them to go. They trudged out into the halls of the office building the way they came, but at the last moment, Ron spun about on the threshold. Laura Ranone blinked up at him, her hand on the door to close it behind them. "Tell him something for me," he pleaded.
The woman still looked nonplused. "Anything."
Ron couldn't help it: he began to cry. "Tell him I'm sorry." The terrified but resolute face of his brother that night in Dumbledore's office lingered in his mind's eye. "Tell him I'm so sorry and...and I would have done anything, really, I would have done anything if he'd let me..." His voice broke. Ranone's face was sympathetic as she patted his arm.
"Yes," she said softly, "Yes, of course."
"No, thank you," said Percy faintly, drawing on some hidden reserve of will to be polite. Laura raised her head and looked at him. In the brighter light of the office she could clearly see how months in Azkaban had eaten away at the boy. His eyes were hollow and haunted and slightly sunken. The bags underneath them were bruises against pasty, dirty skin. The Weasley red hair was lank and dull, hanging limply past his chin. Hunched over into himself on the sofa, Laura could hardly believe that he was six inches taller than herself. He avoided looking straight at her, and looked at everything else in a dazed manner. Ranone's lips pinched together. She walked to his side and grabbed his upper arm (which was nearly as thin as her forearm) gently but firmly.
"Up." Percy glanced up in distant alarm but complied. Laura led him to the back of the room behind her desk, where a door stood. Beyond it was one of the many favors Frank and Amanda Longbottom had done for her: a bathroom complete with toilet, shower, and sink. They had magically installed it for her several days after the Ministry had assigned her to Percy's defense. It had come in handy many times, as Ranone's prediction of long nights at work proved devastatingly accurate. "Wash up," she told him, "Use anything you need and take your time."
She nudged Percy over the threshold and closed the door after him. After a few minutes, while she was preparing a snack of oranges and crackers, the shower began to run. She felt a stab of angry satisfaction. If the poor boy was to be out of that hellhole they called a prison for a week, she was going to make it a week that would sustain him until he was let out again for the trial, beginning with giving him proper food. She doubted that Azkaban fed inmates fresh fruit or vegetables--if they fed them at all.
Paul's skeletal hand reaching out to her flashed across Ranone's eyes. She clenched her fist even as a sudden tear slid down her cheek. There was no doubt in her mind that Fudge had specifically ordered that she be brought into Azkaban for his own childish, petty satisfaction. He was probably still fuming over how a request for Percy's leave on counsel had slipped by him in the form of a court order.
Now Ranone was more determined than ever to make Fudge sorry he had tried to use her as a pawn.
A cursory knock at her office door made Laura look up from peeling the last orange. Her secretary had poked his head inside. "Ms. Ranone? Arthur Weasley and his children are in the conference room. They don't have an appointment." He tossed a glance in the direction of the running water. "Should I tell them you're busy...?"
Laura once again commended herself for finding a secretary who was the epitome of discretion. She hesitated. "No, that's all right," she told him. "I'll be out in a minute."
Abner raised an eyebrow but nodded and withdrew. Ranone poured out a glass of water, placed it by the plate of food, and went to the bathroom door. The water stopped just as her knuckles rapped against it. "Percy?" she called. No answer. "Percy, there's food on the table. Help yourself; it's all yours. If you're still hungry, everything in the 'fridge is yours, too. I'm going to be out of the room for about ten minutes or so."
There was a pause. "Okay."
"Okay." Something tugged at her heart. She leaned back against the door again. "Hey, Percy? You're safe here now. Just stay in this office and you're safe, understand?"
"Okay," he replied. There were tears in his voice. Laura squeezed her eyes shut and let her weight fall against the door for a moment before pulling herself together and leaving the office.
Arthur Weasley and two of his children were sitting at the long table in the conference room. All three looked up as she quietly stepped in. Ranone's gaze immediately caught on the girl. The Weasleys had only one girl, and that was Ginny. So this was the subject of the damned prophecy that had been pestering her night and day--or rather, the subject she would try to disprove to the others. The taller boy had to be one of her brothers. He looks about Harry's age. Ron, probably.
Arthur stood. So you're the one spearheading Ministry resistance to Fudge, thought Laura grimly, noticing flecks of grey in the older man's red hair. Bravo. Is it true? Is the Department of Mysteries really backing you, or are those only rumors?
"Is he there?" The Head of the Muggle Artifacts Department rushed forward as though he would seize her hand. "Where is he? I need to see him." Laura felt pity wash over her when she saw how worn his face was; how desperately his eyes fixed upon hers. She stepped back and held up her hand.
"He's fine," she said firmly, "He's resting now."
"Let me see him," begged Arthur.
"You have to!" Ginny came up behind her father, eyes flashing. "You have to!"
"Please," added the boy from the table. Laura glanced at him, then did a faint double-take. There was a horrible look on his face, as though he would be sick at any moment. She suddenly remembered hearing through her own channels how Fudge's lackeys had tried to coerce each of the children into testifying against her client, threatening Ron Weasley at the last with Percy's imprisonment in Azkaban if he did not cooperate. Yes, then this had to be Ron. She felt her expression soften.
"Mr. Weasley, please," she said, placing her hand on his elbow and guiding him back to the table. She did not sit, and neither did he. "Your son is as healthy as can be expected--healthier, actually. I understand you want to see him, but I cannot allow that. It's not my choice," she added when she saw the beginnings of anger in his face, "There are certain rules I must abide by when taking a client from Azkaban for counsel. He is not to leave this building, and he is not to see anyone not authorized to see him."
"That's my brother!" exploded Ron, shooting out of his chair. Ranone was startled to see he stood as tall as Percy, if not taller. "That's his son! We don't need to be bloody authorized!"
"Ron...!" Weasley's rebuke was half-hearted.
Ron fell silent, seething, feeling his cheeks flame. He exchanged an angry glance with Ginny. Percy's lawyer gave him an understanding look, one that relaxed Ron despite himself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley, all of you," she said sincerely. "I of course will try to get your entire family authorized as soon as possible. You have to realize, breaking the law at this point would only hurt Percy, not help him."
Arthur stared helplessly at Ranone. "Yes," he managed faintly, his voice strained, "I understand."
"I can take a message to him, though."
The older man took an unsteady breath. "Just...just tell him that we love him."
Ron's fists clenched. He could see the door behind Ranone. It would be so easy to run past her and find Percy. He needed to see his brother, he needed to see that he was alive. A hand in the crook of his arm made him look down. Ginny met his gaze and shook her head. Ron bit his lip hard, turning his eyes to the ground. He faintly heard Ranone promise to keep in touch; his dad thanking her and telling them to go. They trudged out into the halls of the office building the way they came, but at the last moment, Ron spun about on the threshold. Laura Ranone blinked up at him, her hand on the door to close it behind them. "Tell him something for me," he pleaded.
The woman still looked nonplused. "Anything."
Ron couldn't help it: he began to cry. "Tell him I'm sorry." The terrified but resolute face of his brother that night in Dumbledore's office lingered in his mind's eye. "Tell him I'm so sorry and...and I would have done anything, really, I would have done anything if he'd let me..." His voice broke. Ranone's face was sympathetic as she patted his arm.
"Yes," she said softly, "Yes, of course."