A/N: I want to make sure I thank fudgebaby for being this stories first reviewer, and second one. Now: I'm still in search of a Beta, hopefully I'll find one before my next chapter, but no promises. Second, and far more important than my search for a beta: I want to give Cataclysmic many, many thanks for both reviewing and putting me in her C2's spotlight. You're Brilliant, Cataclysmic!
You've just
broken the law.
The echo of the statement twists cruelly around him. He had not expected or seen this trap, yet it hurts him more that the child had set it, then his training has failed him. What had he expected of the child? "What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter, may be kidnapping to Dubhán" "You're going to kill me!" He tried to rid his mind of the voices, voices that itched and clawed like those of Voldemort
Silence, a fist closing around his throat, engulfed the office; and an emptiness that has always been present in Harry, since the first time he can remember his Aunt calling him a freak, creeps under his skin. He knows each curve, each sinking hole, of this emptiness, yet he is always surprised how it grows and contracts, how each time he confronts it, it has changed.
"Devlin..." His throat is hot and constricted.
"My name is Dubhán." Harry cannot draw his gaze away from those cold, flaming, eyes; he forces his eyes shut to avoid this weakness.
"Dubhán," It hurts so much to say that name, to surrender the other one, the one that represented the child he had known. "I am your father, I have the right to question you."
"Where is the proof? Where are the files?" He narrows his eyes; eyes that are haunted by the truth he knows and the determination to turn away from it, to crush it into ash and blow it away with the wind. Yet, fear, instead of sending him into a panic, heightens and focuses his senses.
"What exactly to you wish to accomplish by kidnapping a child, Mr. Potter? I will not betray him, I will not betray Tom..." He pauses here; for the effect he knows silence builds. Dubhán understand what he must do now. He lifts his head, like a lion showing its size, straightens his back and captures Harry Potter's green gaze in his own, like a huge snake preparing to strike. "Just as I did not betray you."
"Let me help you with that." His voice is smooth as the marble floors the woman has tripped on and her papers had fallen down on. Still on the ground, she flicks her wrist slightly and the papers, even the ones in his hands, fly to her - neatly stacked, just as they had been before. She lifts herself up, ignoring the hand he has offered her.
"I'm fine, thank you very much." Undeterred, he walks beside her as she makes her way down the office.
"I was looking to speak to Mr. Potter, would you know where he is?" She pauses for a moment, frowning as if running some kind of information through her mind, and then turns to glare at him.
"I do run my husband's schedule, Mr. Malfoy."
"Nor was I implying such. Would you know if he where in the office today, though, or is he stuck in traffic?" Her head snaps to his grey eyes, and once again, a scowl, deep and sharp, molds itself onto her face.
"He is out of the office today, I believe. I'm headed there right now, to drop off a case file, if I am mistaken I will send a paper to your office." He bowed his head slightly, a charming, Malfoy smile ever present on his face.
"Thank you, Mrs. Potter. Mr. Potter does seem to have a lot of big case files in his office, doesn't he?" This was not meant to be answered: it is a question designed for pleasant parting, and that is just what Draco Malfoy does: he turned gracefully from her and went down another hallway in the Ministry building.
Alexandra quickened her steps...
Many can call Voldemort an irate man, some could, have, gone as far as to say he has reached a level of infuriation that cannot be surpassed, but looking back, these many people must reconsider their earlier calculations of his anger. Whatever he might have been called then, none can think of a stronger word that would describe what he has become now.
He is irate a hundred times over, one slightly intelligent Death Eater determined. One might, however, think this would still be a weak label for the newly recruited Death Eater that the previous Death Eater was dragging out of the Base tent; had he been able to think at all after the dose of spells Voldemort had given him.
"Now that this table has one less idiot at it, maybe the rest of you can manage to understand my simple instructions: Find my Grandson, and do not find him dead." Voldemort demanded. It was quite clear to all at the table that he thought that the rest remaining were idiots as well and would have liked to nearly kill them as well. They would be killed, most realized, if they arrived back with no child or a dead child. Despite their doomed fate, they nodded and lifted themselves from the table, at least half of them swearing to kill themselves before returning empty handed.
"No, but the ministry is considering the option of changing that form of the law to add more leeway-" Hermione paused, catching site of red hair, which, once its length registered, meant Alexandra. She excused herself from the conversation and went over to her friend, who was leaning on a wall nearby with all the appearance of someone waiting patiently to talk to friend; Alexandra's appearance often lied.
"We need to talk." She said softly.
"Okay." Alexandra and she often had Order things or Ministry things to discuss; her asking to speak with her triggered no alarms. Then Alexandra took hold of her arm and lead her to an empty hallway space, and, finally, not only to trigger the alarms, but put them on full volume, she cast every silencing charm in existence, expect for the one any semi-intelligent wizard knew had the side effect of deafness for those who tried to get past it.
Nagini's head lifted off the floor, tongue flickering in and out like some kind of laser. IN reaction to this, Voldemort lowly puts down the book he has been regarding, and turns to his snake, listening to her soft whispers. Turning to the door, smiling: "Draco, do come in."
There is no hesitancy in the hand that turns the knob, no pause in the footing; each is done in one fluid movement. Entering, he is as polished and primed as always, as calm in appearance and as willing to bow lowly to his master as any other day.
"He is with Potter, My Lord." He is intelligent, calculating; he needn't be told Voldemort's mood will not tolerate small talk.
"Do I have a traitor on my hands?" He asked, motioning for Malfoy to rise from his bow; he is a master of reading others; he wants to see Malfoy's eyes when he answers this question.
"I do not believe so, My Lord, but my calculations are nothing compared to yours." He is meticulously mannered in the way of speak to those below and, more so, above himself.
"I want them both alive." Voldemort holds up the book he had been reading for Draco to take. Draco does not stare at in confusion, he keeps his gaze with Voldemort, and waits for the explanation he knows will come. "When you first find him, I doubt you will be able to get him out. He was reading this book, make sure he gets it, and make sure you only fail to retrieve him that once."
"Yes, My Lord." He is alert, cunning; he never turns his back on Voldemort: he bows lowly and walks to the door. "I will do as you ask." He does not say he will do his best, or he will try; such weak assurances are useless, they're only reward punishment: he tells his Master that it will be done.
He has hit the mark; he can sense it, but it has come at an expense: he must remember the memory he refers to, a night in his life he would rather pretend had never happened. "You cannot do worse." He says, paying the bill for this comment too; trying hard to cling to the anger and fear that keeps his legs from failing him.
Potter is not sure what to do, Dubhán can smell the uncertainty, yet he finds the courage - Dubhán will call it what it is - to take a step forward, toward him. It is foolhardy, however, when he tries to reach a hand out to Dubhán.
"Its not a very well known fact, Mr. Potter, but as an Auror you should be aware of it: werewolves maintain their poison in human form." Harry closes his eyes, yet his hand remains were it was. Dubhán calls this bravery; Gryffindor style.
"I'm going to trust that you wont bite me, Dubhán." He inched forward again, like he was approaching a wild, wounded, animal.
"Didn't they teach you anything in training, Potter? You shouldn't trust anyone!" Dubhán threw his weight onto his palms, which had not moved from their position against the wall, and then quickly into his legs, kicking out at Potter before he knew what was happening.
It was only Potter's luck that his office door opened to admit two witches, one of which brandished a wand and spelled Dubhán frozen in the air, before she flicked her wrist and he was floated down to a chair, where he still could not move.
"What is going on here, Harry?" She gave Dubhán an appraising glance, as if she were looking for injuries, and when she found none, went over to Harry, who was bent over in pain.
"Damn!" He leaned his bent back against the wall, arms wrapped around his stomach. Geoffrey did not move from his position at a chair, and Hermione only shut the door, standing stone-like in front of its closed surface.
"I didn't hit you that hard." Dubhán mocked from his position, though he could not see Potter, and his mind was more on the witch at the door and the one behind him.
"I don't want to know what he thinks is hard!" Potter coughed out, allowing Alexandra to cast a pain-relieving spell on him.
"You must keep in mind, Mr. Potter, that Dubhán is both a werewolf, which allows him to take more brute injuries and heal from them quickly, and is very talented at suppressing discomfort." Geoffrey said, looking at the boy in disappointment.
"I was referring to his tantrum." Dubhán defended.