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Pricking Achille's Heel: Chapter VII

Peter Pettigrew's bald head poked into the dungeon and coughed imperiously several times, clearly pleased with whatever message he had to deliver. Visibly affronted, Lucius tried to ignore the rat and raised his wand with a Tormenting spell ready.

            "I can't allow you to continue," said Pettigrew smugly, enjoying Lucius' reaction. The haughty man looked injured beyond repair.

            "I hadn't even gotten started," muttered Lucius. Readjusting his expression so that he maintained some semblance of dignity, he raised his wand again.

            "It's too bad you never take me seriously," said Peter mournfully, shaking his baldhead in disapproval. "You know, we do work for the same cause."

            "You're disrupting my fun," said Lucius, warningly. "Go away before I crucio you."

            "I wouldn't do that," Peter said, as he took undid Minerva McGonagall's chains with a flick of his wrist. Lucius Malfoy was too shocked to respond; he could only splutter like a goldfish.

            Peter Pettigrew latched his hand around Malfoy's wrist and yanked. "Don't look so glum. I came to tell you we're going on a little trip. It'll be fun."

            He gave a cheery half wave. "So long, Professor."

            She must have been too relieved to respond.

*          *            *

            The moon was nearly full, but not for another three days. This was great news to Remus Lupin, who at the moment, was trying to land his broomstick in the wooded area that curtained around the nearby village. While the village itself was very small and unimportant, it did house the famous museum on the hill (built by the wealthy Dr. Ippen Einkash), which contained several acclaimed galleries of medieval wizarding apparatus.

            Sirius readjusted his binoculars, focusing in on the view. "There are four Death Eaters patrolling the premises. It looks like the rest of them are raiding the museum…I can see seven lumpy shadows guarding the entrances."

            Remus took a look for himself. "They've got a large flying coach to cart away the goods."           

            "Do you know what they're after?"

            "Probably that great wand collection of famous wizards, including several nasty Dark ones. Don't know why he needs it though."

            Sirius thought for a moment. "It might have something to do with Harry's wand…sharing the same feather and all."

            Nodding, Lupin put down his binoculars. "Sirius, while I take out the patrols, you can go in to the museum from the back, and see what they're up to. We'll meet in the gallery, from opposite ends."

            In answer, Sirius bounded into the disguise of a black squirrel, scrabbled up a tree, and leapt from branch to branch until he'd reached the hill where the museum was situated.

            A Death Eater strolled casually beneath the trees, unaware of Sirius Black's presence. The squirrel became a man, the man cast a silent spell, and there was a soft thud as the unconscious Death Eater fell onto the neatly trimmed lawn. Bounded and gagged, he was dumped in a nearby shrub. The squirrel leaped onto the roof and disappeared into the darkness.

*          *            *

            "You know what," said Wallace, as he drummed his fingers along the Infirmary counter, causing Fawkes to squawk in annoyance. "I've been thinking."

            "Have you," said Snape sourly. He had been worrying and wondering why Professor McGonagall wasn't back yet. She probably meant to spite him.

            "Yes, of course," said Wallace, undiscouraged by Snape's indifferent tone, "Check this book out."

            "It's a Muggle aviation book. Good for them."

            "No, Severus, look!"

            "The planes are flying in formation. Good for them."

            "But look what they can do!"

            "Drop bombs. Good for them. I suppose you want to hire Muggle pilots to fight against Voldemort? Drop a hydrogen bomb on him."

            Wallace gave Snape the peculiarist of stares. "No-o. Wizard battles have been fought primarily on the ground, hand-to-hand, with wands. Now, suppose we form our own sort of air force by putting wizards on broomsticks, enough to do formations and that sort of thing. Imagine the befuddlement we'd cause if our troops attacked from the air."

            "This isn't Star Wars," said Snape haughtily, then scowled at admitting he'd watched the Muggle movie. "Besides, where will we get these troops?"

            Wallace had anticipated the question. "People are going to start swarming into Hogwarts. You just wait and see; they're running away from Voldemort's army, who will attack us sooner or later. There will be troops enough."

            "So where did you get this idea?"

            "Oh, by watching Professor Flitwick play Quidditch. The loop-the-loops and all."

            Snape nodded his approval. "Not bad."

            There was a loud commotion, and Wallace heard the Weasley kids raising a fuss. Sirius burst into the Infirmary levitating an unconscious and bound Mrs Weasley, with the twins, Ginny, and Ron trailing close behind.

            "What happened?"

            "Why's Mum so pale?"

            "Where's Dad?"

            Ron put a hand on his mother's shoulder, but Sirius pushed him unceremoniously away. "Stay back, all of you!" he growled, as he went off to rumble at Madam Pomfrey.

            The Weasleys did not need to eavesdrop to hear.

            "It was dark…she attacked Remus—he'll be fine—probably under the Imperius spell…I had to fight her…safest thing is to keep her sedated for now…can't trust her yet…"

*          *            *

            Left alone in her cell, Minerva found herself with more than plenty of time for thought. What did You-Know-Who want with Dumbledore? They were keeping him alive; she could hear him talking in his sleep, raving sometimes. And what about Moody? Sometimes, the Death Eaters came to take him away, to torture him. He was always unconscious by the time they were through with him. They were trying to break him.

            But, thought Minerva with relief, as she rolled a small rock in her palm, they've forgotten about me. Suddenly, a tiny surge of magic came to her, and she transfigured it into a mouse, then a butterfly, and after chasing it around the room, she caught it and transfigured it into a lump of wax. Then, the pulse of magic faded and Minerva found herself feeling very much like a Squib again without her wand.

            Bored out of her mind, she idly molded the wax into a kestrel, wishing she was anywhere but trapped in Malfoy's dungeon with nothing to do. She had tried to occupy her mind with something productive, such as plotting escape routes or envisioning herself beating the daylights out of Lucius Malfoy. Lately, she had been mentally tossing around the old double Animagus idea.

            This transfiguration was one of the few acts of magic that could be performed without a wand. She decided on something small, inconspicuous, but practical, like a sparrow. Besides, ever since she'd been a child, she had always wanted to fly away…

"Get out of my mind, Tom. You can't hurt me in my dream," came a faint mumble.   

            "Professor Dumbledore?" she called angrily, knowing full well that he was experiencing a hideous nightmare that the Death Eaters had mixed into his Draught. "Professor, wake up!"

            She heard his voice shake with frustration. "Minerva…please…stop it!" He was crying.

            "Professor Dumbledore, please, wake up!"

            Just as he jerked awake, the sound of footsteps told her the Death Eaters had entered the dungeons.

            "How is my dear Professor doing?" sneered a thin, cold voice. "I heard you weren't sleeping well…perhaps my Spellogist should run some tests on you, to make sure you're sound."

            "Yeah, he looks a bit peaky, don't you think?"

            "And the stench! Look at Albus Dumbledore, the world's greatest wizard, huddling in filth."

            "You're looking very lost, Professor," continued that voice, eerie and emotionless. "'Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music;--Do I wake or sleep?' That is a very good question."

            "Get out of my mind, Tom. You can't hurt me in my dream."           

            "Is that so?" said the voice, as Goyle grunted in laughter. "Lucius, bring McGonagall here."

            "Yes, Master."

            "No need to fret, Professor. As you said, no one gets hurt in a dream." He nodded at Malfoy. "Please."

Lucius pointed his wand at Minerva, while Crabbe and Goyle pinned her down. "Crucio!"

            "No…not again…" Dumbledore sounded so lost. "Minerva! Please…stop it!"       

            Crabbe laughed at the sight of a sobbing Dumbledore, but Pettigrew looked away, ashamed.

            Minerva was breathing hard. "Albus, you're awake."

            Hoping to shut her up, Malfoy gave her a swift kick in the ribs.

            "This isn't a dream, Albus," Minerva shouted furiously through gritted teeth. "Do something!"

            Before the Death Eaters could react, Dumbledore had sprung up, punched Malfoy in the stomach and snapped his offensive wand in two. The curse lifted immediately.

            "Stupify!" shouted Voldemort and Dumbledore fell to the ground. "Sleep tight."

His voice became brisk. "Bite your tongue off, Malfoy, and stop bawling over your wand. Crabbe and Goyle, I want you two to guard Dumbledore's cell. Make sure he is kept heavily drugged at all times. And don't you slack off; that man's more dangerous now than ever."

            He turned to McGonagall. "You, come with me."

            Feeling more than uneasy, Minerva tried to read the tone of his voice, but it gave nothing away. After many turns and a series of stairs, they reached a wide platform that encircled what seemed to be an arena, completely sealed by a tall glass dome. It looked like half a round fish tank or half a hamster ball; the word "cage" flashed into Minerva's mind. As they walked along the platform, they passed many wizards and witches in white lab coats, who looked up from their scrolls of scribbled theories and experiments.

            "Ah yes," said Voldemort, "my researchers. You could have been one, had you pursued that study after Hogwarts. And," he said to the Spellogists, "there will be an informal Spectacle; you make take notes if you wish."

            They approached a black door that lead to the glass cage. Minerva found herself facing Voldemort, her back against the door, feeling very cornered. He took out his wand, and she braced herself, but all he did was Summon a thick manila folder. Opening it very slowly, he began to read.

            "Minerva McGonagall. Profession: teacher of Transfiguration. Born in Scotland. Your father, a Squib, was a fisherman, and your mother had absolutely no magic in her. At the tender age of three, you set your house on fire, causing the death of both your parents—very impressive magic for a toddler, eh? Chased out of the village, you made your way to Edinburgh, where you roamed the streets for six years disguised as a boy. One day at a pub, you turned one Mr. Jerkins into a slug; in consequence, they sent you to a mental hospital…"

            "Give me that file." Her face froze into a mask of fury.    

            "…until you were rescued by one Albus Dumbledore, where you started your education at Hogwarts two years early. Your classmates describe you as an angry child with an uncontrollable temper, so of course you had few friends…"

            "Leave my past alone. That's none of your business." She made a lunge for the folder that contained her history in encyclopedia-detail.

            "Touchy subject, eh?"

            "I've gotten over that a long time ago."

            "Really," said Voldemort, with a wave of his wand. The black doors parted open, and Minerva found herself falling—no, drifting—into the glass arena.

            Voldemort shut the doors with another flick of the wrist. "The Spectacle has begun."

*          *            *

            From where she stood, Minerva could see the Spellogists peering eagerly into the dome, their notepads and quills in hand. They were expecting something, but what? Scanning the grounds, she suddenly saw a large metal door lift, and streams upon streams of black hooded beings poured into the room. Dementors.

            Minerva ran to the glass and pounded it, kicked it, hoped it would shatter. But she was trapped. The suffocating frost permeated the air, but her panicked mind stayed alert.

            Her first thought was to conjure a Patronus without her wand. It failed miserable, and from above, she could hear Voldemort's amused laughter. Bolts of anger shot through her system, and her concentration was lost.

            The Dementors formed three rings around her, and closed steadily in. A ghastly memory slowly surfaced to her mind. She knew now why Voldemort had gone through the trouble of unearthing the childhood she had tried to forget.

            Voldemort watched this scene with satisfaction. The woman was now on her knees, pulling herself into a tiny ball, like a child frightened of the dark.

            A memory floated through Minerva's mind.

"Can Dementors be killed?" Sirius had asked, when long, long, ago, they discovered that Azkaban had been breached.

Her mind went numb. She could not remember the answer to Sirius' question.

A Dementor picked the limp woman up by the scruff of her collar. "This is the end," sighed a researcher, slamming his notebook shut.

As she dangled in the Dementor's grasp, Minerva could see into the blackness behind the hood. She was smother in despair, not even bothering to breath anymore when suddenly, she latched onto a joyful thought: the day she'd met Dumbledore. The day she'd left the hospital.

Mulling over every single wonderful detail, Minerva looked the Dementor straight into the eye, sharing that memory with it. It was so stunned it dropped her. The despair abated ever so slightly.

A researcher scribbled hastily into her notepad, "Dementors in unnatural state of ecstasy. Disoriented gliding, clumsy movements, backing away from subject. Others are advancing, yet retreat with look of shock."

Minerva McGonagall was also surprised by the Dementor's reaction. She fed them memory after memory.

The Dementors were experiencing more life than they'd ever felt before. They tasted the forty-two hundred different flavors of sweets at Honeydukes. They balanced precariously and fearlessly on high rooftops as a cat. They cried for joy when Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup.

"That's nineteen minutes, twenty-two seconds, she's lasted," remarked the researcher, still scrawling into his notebook. "A record."

He scrutinized the test subject, who was shaking weakly, bathed in sweat, but still standing. Another minute passed and suddenly, there was a burst of lights that swept through the dome and shattered the glass. The Dementor was gone; only tatters of cloak remained.

Voldemort felt ferociously excited, a feeling that he hadn't had since he'd discovered his Chamber of Secrets. "Bring Albus Dumbledore to me."

His experiment had been wildly successful. He was going to be the greatest wizard in the history of the world.

A/N: Sorry that chapter took so very long to write. Please review to state your opinions, suggestions or points of dissent. I'd appreciate that a lot. By the way, I started writing this before Order of the Phoenix came out so I'm going to continue, despite the fact that I'm straying from Potterverse.