Disclaimer: Having suddenly realized that I haven't given credit to Ms. Rowling, I do so now. Whoops, sorry.
Pricking Achille's Heel
Lucius paid a daily visit to his dungeons. Ignoring the frigid air, he headed towards the great Albus Dumbledore's cell.
The man hardly looked like the greatest wizard alive. He was tossing and turning, mumbling in his sleep. Five minutes later, he was smiling and humming, and Lucius couldn't help wondering what sort of fantastical nightmare Lord Voldemort had concocted for the Muggle-lover.
As Pettigrew had explained pompously to Malfoy, "Albus Dumbledore is a genius. And there's such a fine line between that and insanity. Blur reality and fantasy into one giant gray ball and…"
Peter gave Lucius a hefty shove. He sounded like he was repeated Voldemort, word for word.
"How many times has he woken up today?" Lucius asked a house elf, who was covered in purple goose bumps that made him look uglier than ever.
"Four, sir."
"Then double his potion. Give him a full tankard of the Draught of Living Death. We have to keep him confused until…."
After glaring at the house elf for no reason, Malfoy headed towards Moody's cell. As of yet, Voldemort didn't have any specific plans for him, so for the moment he, like Dumbledore, was kept out of the way. It surprised Lucius that Voldemort had not killed either men yet, causing him to wonder how they could possibly be of any use to the Dark Lord. Malfoy knew from experience that opponents were best off dead.
Finally, he approached the last cell, empty for the moment. After commanding another house elf to put a dab of anti-Animagus brew into the water, he checked the Monitor to make sure it was working and left.
* * *
News of the outside world had ground to a halt at Hogwarts. The Prophet hadn't been delivered for days, the radio was dead, and the Floo Network had been completely dismantled. Apart from Wallace's ominous report, no one was sure what was happening inside London, which was barricaded by the Death Eaters.
The silence worried Remus.
Wallace Whitman sat in the library, absentmindedly reading an Internet article, chugging soda, and staring out the window at five-minute intervals.
Madame Maxime and Hagrid had snuck off into the Forbidden Forest to consult the centaurs, but they were undeniably taking longer than necessary, although Wallace wasn't sure that the Forbidden Forest was the best spot for a romantic interlude. And out on the Quidditch field, Professor Flitwick was showing the Weasley kids how to do inverted loop-the-loops and other daring aerial feats on broomsticks.
Sighing, he typed a few more words into his laptop, waited, crushed his soda can, and turned off the computer. Tucking it under his arm, he decided to visit Severus Snape up in the Infirmary.
"What do you want?" came Snape's sour voice. Being bedridden for an indefinite amount of time did not promote cheeriness.
"Look, I brought you something."
"It's Muggle," Snape said distainfully, looking at the computer as if it were spoilt yogurt drizzled in ketchup. "Why would I want it?"
"I'm not giving it to you!" muttered Wallace, as he turned the device on and typed in a pass code. "I'm just trying to make your sick stay more bearable."
"How kind of you," said Severus, not even trying to sound like he meant it.
"I'm bringing the outside world in," said Wallace, as the machine began to beep and whine. He typed in another password, and then a third. "There's a wealth of information on the Net, and I'm sure there are tech wizs enough in Diagon Alley who can give us a clue of what's going on with You-Know-Who and all."
"You mean Voldemort?" Snape's voice was daring.
"Yeah, Voldemort," said Wallace, maneuvering the built in mouse of his computer. "Since I was only two when he was at the height of his power, and six during his downfall, I'm not frightened of him much. He's just a piece of history, except that he's back now."
Something big whooshed over his head, the wind ruffling pleasantly past his neck. A large black owl with a letter in its claw had perched itself comfortably on top of the screen.
"Get off of that! You'll scratch it," yelled Wallace, as he ran to fetch Fawke's spare perch. Before Professor McGonagall had left, she had made sure that Dumbledore's bird was well cared for by Madame Pomfrey.
Severus Snape was more interested in the letter, as it was addressed to him. There was no seal and no name, but he recognized the dagger-like lettering that indubitably belonged to Lucius Malfoy. Despite the cool and smug tone of the letter, the shaking penmanship suggested that Malfoy had been furious when he'd been writing this letter.
He looked up to find the Whitman boy peering over his shoulder, his great brown eyes straining to read the print.
"Do you mind?" said Snape coldly, folding the letter in half.
"Er…not at all," said Wallace, his gaze now fixed uncomfortably on the monitor. "Oh, look here!"
"What now."
Angling the laptop so that the irate Potions master could see the screen, Wallace showed how he'd entered the chat room of a site called "Gandalf Lives…duh!" where many of the techie wizards liked to convene online.
"I've signed you on as SnapetheApe. Hmmm…Ozman314 says the werewolves are snatching people from the streets and locking them up in Gringotts. Dementers are posted all about the city…no one can get in or out except the D.E.'s. ManicMerlin guesses that You-Know-Who's raised an army of—no way—five thousand…but ManicMerlin always exaggerates."
"Let me see," said Snape, who greedily snatched the Muggle device from Wallace. As he changed his username, Snape decided that the Whitman boy, who was now petting the black owl, wasn't so bad after all.
* * *
Vault 919 smelled of stale air, beef jerky, and sweat, among other things. Early on in their imprisonment, the captives had decided to partition off a small corner to be reserved for natural bodily functions, by Arabella's advice. To keep spirits high, Mundungus passed around his jumbo stash of beef jerky and told as many jokes about the Ministry as he knew. But even that got old.
"Why haven't they come for us, yet?" muttered Molly, her head resting on Arthur's shoulder.
"Perhaps we're not downtrodden and miserable enough for the Imperius curse to be effective," hazarded her husband.
"Yes we are."
"We could," grinned Arabella, "pretend to be languishing in desolate despondency."
Three days with no food nor water in metal vault had not dampened her spirits. The woman was indomitable, unsinkable. Molly bet that she'd be jovial even in Azkaban, except that Azkaban had been reduced to rubble.
On the fifth day, the Dementors came in, along with several wobbly-kneed Death Eaters. As every pleasant memory dissipated from recollection, Molly felt ready to surrender.
"We've brought you hot meals and drinks," said the Death Eater, as a company of house elves entered with fragrant trays of steaming food, "before we are to negotiate the terms of surrender."
"Don't touch that," whispered Arabella, as she yanked Mundungus Fletcher back, "You greedy hog, your belly is full from beef jerky."
"Pretend you're eating it," said Molly, and they followed her plan.
Just as Arabella suspected, the food had been laced with some sort of sleeping potion. As they played along, Arabella tousled her hair just enough so that it covered her eyes like a veil.
The whole room was full of sleeping wizards, and she saw from the corner of her eyes the Death Eaters looming over a snoring witch. He muttered, "Imperio", and then "awaken." She opened her eyes slowly, mesmerized.
"Good morning. Who do you serve? Who is your leader?"
"You-Know…Voldemort."
"It's Lord Voldemort."
"Oh, yes, of course."
The Death Eater smiled. "This is too easy."
They went on. Arabella realized they were going to have to fight the curse, just like everyone else, but at least they hadn't been weakened by whatever the Death Eaters had put in the food. Resolving to trust no one, not even herself, until she overcame the curse, Arabella waited until they get neared her.
Biting her tongue, she pledged her loyalties, feeling a great sense of self-loathing tinged with desperation. As Mundungus, Molly, and Arthur did the same, she caught the look of trapped repulsion in their eyes. It's a race, she told herself, to see who beats the curse first.
No, no, said another voice, not at all. Being a brainwashed slave is not so bad. You ought to be tickled pink to be in the service of Lord Voldemort. After all, he was so kind to spare you…
* * *
"I don't believe it," yelled Sirius, when he heard from the Whitman boy that Voldemort's army had just steam-rolled over Oxford. The Rubix cube was whirling like a top in his hands. Remus didn't see how Sirius could possibly solve it if he was just arbitrarily twisting it around as fast as he could.
"How did he possibly build up his army so fast?" wondered Remus, slowly sitting down. "Five thousand. Five thousand wand wielding wizards!"
"We ought to do something," muttered Sirius, "Ever since Dumbledore left, we've been plagued by inaction."
"You're being a firebrand," said Flitwick, who was passing by. "Hagrid and Madame Maxime have been advised to appeal to the giants again. We can't do anything without more support."
Remus thought for a moment. "I think Professor Flitwick is right. Voldemort is taking a different approach. Before, he operated on suspicion and fear to terrorize the world; now he uses sheer force."
"Where is Professor McGonagall when you need her? She could plot some brilliant tactical ploy for us to use."
"Severus said she's gone to France and the United States to plead for aid."
"Then why aren't they responding? Voldemort's moving north. He could be here in weeks, Remus."
His Rubix cube clicked into place, revealing a totally blue top layer.
"What do you have in mind then, a counterstrike?" said Remus slowly.
Sirius laughed grimly. "It'll be like old days, Moony. Come on."
* * *
A small ring of veteran Death Eaters stood in an empty room. They were considered Voldemort's inner circle, having supported the Dark Lord from the start, but none of them had even seen Voldemort, much less heard from him, since the Triwizarding Tournament. Instead Pettigrew relayed all Voldemort's orders, as he was the Dark Lord's confidant and nanny, as some called him behind his back. Only Wormtail had the slightest inkling of what Voldemort was planning.
"We haven't done anything," complained Gregory Avery, "no raids, no curses. I miss the thrill of midnight terrorism, the ecstasy that comes with firing Unforgivable after Unforgivable, the satisfaction of Muggle torture."
"Be patient," said the scratchy voice of Peter Pettigrew, "We've relocated a group of Spellologist from Oxford. All efforts will be bent on their indoctrination."
"What good is a bunch of nerds?" asked Goyle, flexing his muscles for no reason at all. "They're not going to breath fear into the Muggles."
"Honestly Goyle, Muggle torture is old. We've moved on to more important things," said Pettigrew. "They will be used to research new curses."
Lucius, who used to be Voldemort's favorite, felt that the rat was being too proud of his newfound importance. The man used to be a cowering wimp, now he was Voldemort's slave; how dare Pettigrew give such airs!
"Then I suppose," he said to Peter coldly, "his Lordship, who esteems you so, must have certainly informed you told us of the infiltrator we've just apprehended."
A tinge of red told Malfoy that he was not aware of this. Resuming his role of leader once more, Lucius smiled maliciously at the obsequious toady.
"Who?"
"Oh, an old friend. One of Dumbledore's."
"And he got through disguised as Severus Snape? How did he outsmart your system?" Pettigrew shot Lucius a triumphant look.
Lucius rolled his eyes. "With magic."
"Well I can't wait," said Crabbe, rubbing his hands excitedly, "Let's torture him and make him tell us everything Dumbledore is planning!"
"You idiot," muttered Goyle under his breath, "Dumbledore hasn't been planning anything ever since we've locked him up. Honestly, you nitwit."
"Don't make fun of me, Goyle," muttered his large counterpart tearfully. "I thought you were my friend."
"Tell you what, why don't we pay the captive a visit, eh?" said Wormtail soothingly. "Maybe you can even torture him."
"Her," corrected Lucius
"Same difference," said Avery, "It's not like we're picky."
"You made us think it was a man," complained Pettigrew. "Who is it, then?"
"Are you disappointed it's not Sirius Black? Well, it is another old acquaintance of yours. I believe she was your Transfiguration professor."
* * *
The first thing Minerva McGonagall saw when she opened her eyes was a blurry gray ceiling. But even before she opened her eyes, she was aware of three things. First and most importantly, she was alive, but tied down to whatever she was resting upon, probably a table. Then, the weight of failure and disappointment hit her. She hadn't been able to keep her disguise and she hadn't brought Albus Dumbledore safely back to Hogwarts. And finally, there was a sense of relief that the Portkey was still hidden, that she could escape at any time if she had to.
No. That Portkey pinned to her collar was for Dumbledore.
There was the sound of footsteps approaching, and Minerva couldn't help feeling anxious, especially since she was tied up, and without her wand and glasses.
"Good afternoon, Miss McGonagall," came a cold drawling voice, slightly deeper than Draco's. Lucius Malfoy turned to his gang of Death Eaters. "You can go now."
Crabbe's eager face fell. "I thought we were going to torture her."
"Later," said Goyle, dragging his pouting friend out of the room.
"Very well. Now, Miss McGonagall, it is not everyday that the Severus Snape you invited to your house is actually Minerva McGonagall disguised as a man, is it? I'm very interested as to why you are here."
Minerva didn't give a response and Malfoy didn't expect one. He was having a hard enough time being civil, not that he needed to.
"No matter. Do you really think that your pathetic, leaderless band of freaks will be able to stop Lord Voldemort?"
"A baby boy incapable of magic defeated him."
"We have the Dementors, the werewolves, the vampires, the banshees, the yetis, and the trolls on our side. You don't even have the backing of the Ministry, even when it existed. You've always been on the wrong side, Minerva McGonagall."
"That pure blood banter is getting old. Wizards like you give decent pure-blood families a bad reputation."
"Those Muggle-lovers disgrace themselves, consorting with Mudbloods like you." Malfoy was shaking with anger now; a crazed look lit his pale blue eyes. This was clearly a subject he felt strongly about. "But you're worse than that. You're orphan scum. You ought to be roaming the streets, picking through garbage cans for your next meal. You don't deserve a wand; you don't deserve to teach wizards."
Minerva goaded him. "I teach your son."
Malfoy was shrieking now. "I remember you at Hogwarts. You couldn't even read when Dumbledore brought you there. All the teachers pitied you; all the kids hated you."
He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. In this instant, Minerva became a cat and darted out the door.
Without really knowing where to go, she dashed through the twisty corridors, memorizing as many landmarks as she could, when she suddenly found herself in the freezing cold dungeons.
The sight of an old man ranting and shivering in a cell made her stop. He looked at her with a benign and befuddled expression on his face.
"Why Minerva, what a pleasant surprise to see you in my dream!" Then, he went off to chat with an imaginary Hagrid while petting a nonexistent Fang.
Minerva swallowed hard, trying not to cry at the sight of a broken and rambling Dumbledore. She didn't want to know what they'd done to him.
At that moment, a violent kick sent her sprawling into the hard rocky wall. Minerva struggled to stay in cat form.
"Don't be mean to the kitty," came Dumbledore's voice.
Lucius whipped his wand and Dumbledore collapsed back into slumber. Malfoy snatched the cat by the scruff of her neck; twisting, she gave him a deep scratch that drew bright red beads of blood.
"Not a wise move," growled Malfoy, smacking the cat with his hand, which worked better than a Stunning spell. He threw her into the empty cell.
Although he'd promised Crabbe a chance to practice his Unforgivables, Lucius Malfoy didn't feel like waiting or sharing. Carelessly waving his wand, he forced Minerva back into her original form. Another flick of his wand had her chained to the wall. As he surveyed the Mudblood, whose face was set in resolute defiance, he couldn't help feeling the rush of adrenaline that Avery had described earlier. What thrill it would be to make her scream, flinch, and squirm.
A/N: Sorry some of that felt kind of lame. I did my best to avoid having to actually describe any torture scenes. Those come out particularly stiff and unreal.
