Hours later, when the many curses the mob at The Three Broomsticks had heaped upon her began to wear off, the girl became aware of voices speaking somewhere near at hand.
She lay still, eyes closed, listening to the discussion.
"That one that came in last, from Hogsmeade," said a tall, black auror, "she seems awfully young to be a death eater. Do you suppose You-Know-Who is recruiting new followers already?"
"I doubt he is recruiting. He wanted to keep his return quiet, right? Probably her parents got her into it."
"Damn! That's so sick. You see everything around here, huh?."
Arthur Weasley nodded in grim agreement. "Have we got an ID on her yet?"
"No. They're still working on it upstairs. You know, she kind of reminds me of someone."
"To tell the truth, I was startled to see her when we picked her up. She's a dead ringer for my sister, Cassiopea, but Cassy died seventeen years ago today."
"I'm sorry to hear that Arthur. I never knew you had a sister, but maybe I saw her once, because that girl really does look familiar. Was it You-Know-Who?"
Arthur nodded grimly, and shuffled his paper.
"What do you suppose is keeping her ID? She's the only one left."
"Hard telling. Perhaps she is from over seas. Our ministry and the American ministry are more cooperative since Fudge became minister, but the Yanks still keep allot to themselves."
"Do you think they'll take an interest in our troubles with You-Know-Who this time around?"
"Oh, they're interested alright, now that the truth is out. But I doubt Fudge welcomes their interest. The American Minister of Magic was furious at the bungling way the whole thing's been handled this past year. Some nasty threats he made, let me tell you. I wouldn't be surprised if they hauled Fudge before the International Counsel of Wizards, and demanded his resignation."
"Might not be such a bad idea. Still, those Yanks are right pushy, interfering even. I wouldn't say no to about a hundred of their top aurors backing us up though, so long as they took orders, rather than dishing them out."
Kingsley Shacklebolt, sipped his tea and shuffled his paper a little, watching the other man read. He'd never heard anyone mention Arthur's sister, or her death before.
"So, what are we going to do with this bunch?" He flicked a thumb at the pile of unconscious Death Eaters on the stone floor of the makeshift holding cell.
"Straight to Azkaban. Soon as they come around they'll be processed and shipped out."
"With out even interrogating them first?"
"Nope. Interrogations tomorrow, and hearings when the ministry has got the time. We're all going to be stretched pretty thin for a while here, double shifts, overtime, pep potions. Other concerns are more pressing than the discomfort of a few Death Eaters just now. Plus Fudge is right ticked that 'golden boy' here," he nodded toward the still unconscious Lucius Malfoy, "pulled the wool over his eyes the way he did. A right prat he feels, and frankly is. Of all the stupidities, listening to Malfoy above Dumbledore has got to be the worst."
"Do you really think Azkaban is secure enough without the dementors?"
"More secure, frankly. It isn't likely Voldemort will be able to talk our aurors into turning, traitor, like he did with the dementors. But I'd like to see him try."
"That would make things easier, and messier too, I imagine."
"And another thing, I can't help but wonder if some of those Death Eaters from the last time might have mended their ways if they had been treated half decent, maybe bored into a little self examination? But now the ones that aren't as mad as march hares, are as mad as hornets, because of the misery they suffered all those years under the dementors."
"My mother always said, kindness cures."
"I think she was a wise woman."
The two men sipped their tea in silence for a bit. Through slitted lids the girl could see they were pouring over the morning papers. She risked glancing around at her surroundings. To her left there was a wall of iron bars, magically reinforced no doubt. At her left snored a pair of unconscious Death Eaters, like black hills, in their shapeless robes. She turned to her right, and though she thought she was prepared, still her heart leapt and hammered wildly. He was so close, his face no more that six inches from her own, the man she had hung on to life for; hoping, against all odds, to one day be reunited with him. His blonde hair was touched with silver now. And that small crease between his brows, the one she had called his 'I want' line, was much more pronounced. But it was him, her Lucius.
Almost against her will she reached for him, and then gasped in shock at the burning pain the movement brought on. She heard the men drop their papers. She fled into the depths of her mind, letting that other one wake. That other was her best defense now. Her last real thought was: 'forgive me Arthur.'
When she awoke she saw two men peering down at her, with hard faces and cold, angry eyes.
Deciding she ought to put her best foot forward she smiled, and sat up to introduce herself. She gasped as she did so however, and wondered why her back should burn so. Almost at once she mastered it, (didn't do to go airing one's dirty laundry in public) and she forced a pleasant smile back on her face.
"Coming around are we," Kingsley asked, but his eyes were on Arthur, who had gone very pale.
"Yes. I've had a most pleasant rest. My back is a little stiff, from sleeping on the floor I imagine. Do I know you," she asked Arthur.
"I don't know Miss. Why don't you tell me your name," Arthur answered. There was a strain in his voice.
"My name? Huh... I just had it a second ago, but I don't seem to remember now."
"Are you being cute with me?"
"No. I don't think so," she smiled.
"Memory charm?" Arthur asked.
"Could be. Who knows. That crowd at the Three Broomsticks was riled up enough. Surprising she wasn't hurt."
"I think I may have been, actually. My back is really quite tender."
"Would you like to see a matron?"
"Not really," she answered truthfully.
Arthur shrugged and the two men returned to their tea and papers.
"No accent," Kingsley whispered casually.
"Nope. She really does look just like Cassy did. A dead ringer. Cassy would be in her forties now though; bless her soul."
"Arthur, I don't mean to pry, but how'd she... you know."
"Die? Voldemort. And Lucius Malfoy."
"Remains?"
"Plenty. All over the place. I really don't..."
"Of course, Arthur. I'm sorry"
As the two men read in silence again the girl, a bit at a loss, looked around wondering where on earth she was, and how she had got there. If only she could remember. The man on the floor moaned loudly just then, and grasped her wrist, rather roughly in his black gloved hand, so that she fell over next to him. She couldn't help but cry out then, the pain in her back was that severe.
"Cassiopea," the man on the floor sighed, his eyes refusing to focus properly.
"I know you, don't I," she whispered, but his head lolled as he lapsed back into unconsciousness.
The two men, alarmed by her cry, jumped up and dashed over to the bars again, wands at ready.
"He grabbed her! Did you see that!"
"That's it," Arthur Weasley fumed, "I'm going for a matron. We can't leave her in there with those thugs. Will you be alright, or should I send Dunnings in?"
"No, I'm alright."
Arthur hurried out. Kingsley remained by the bars watching the girl in bemused interest. They should have an ID on her by now. What was up with that? Then, to Kingsly's immense horror, he saw the girl pull Malfoy close. She stroked his hair, and kissed his brow tenderly, for all the world like a lover. He wanted to rush in, and pull her away, maybe wash her mouth out with soap, but he couldn't enter a cell full of Death Eaters alone. Then her cloak, far too big for her size, slipped from one shoulder, so that he could plainly see the ugly, fresh stripes of a lashing.
"Hey you! Miss," he called.
She sat up with a grimace and turned toward him, forcing on that vague, pleasant smile again.
"May I help you?"
"Come here," he demanded.
With an effort she rose unsteadily, and came over to the bars.
"What happened to your back? Turn around and let me see that." He held his wand tightly; least she should make a grab for it.
"I don't know," She answered in a pleasant, conversational voice, turning her shoulder to him and peering back to look at herself. "I think the floor is just too hard for sleeping on. I don't know what possessed me to try it. I do feel quite rested though."
He gaped at her incredulously. "You've been beaten!"
"Have I? Imagine that. Isn't that peculiar." She smiled at him. "May I go back and sit down now? That man over there appears to be hurt." She gasped. "Do you suppose he has been beaten too?"
"Yes. In a manner of speaking. And it serves him right. But you stay right here. I'm going to have a medimagus look at those stripes."
"Have I stripes?"
"The wounds on your back! Are you being cute with me!"
"No. I don't think so," she shrugged and then winced.
Arthur returned just then, accompanied by a burly looking, middle-aged witch, with steel gray, short-coiffed hair, and iron-rimmed glasses. The pair hurried to the cage bars to help Kingsley, who, by the look on his face seemed to need it.
"What is it," Arthur asked. Then, seeing the red, raw slashes on the girl's shoulder, he whistled.
"Did one of those thugs do this to her," Matron Prudholm demanded. "I don't know what you boys were thinking, locking this girl up with that scum. Why wasn't I called at once? This is most improper!"
The two men flushed, and looking very uncomfortable, mumbled something incoherent, and fidgeted with their suddenly hot and too tight collars.
"Come out here dear," the matron crooned, holding her fist out to Kingsley, who wore the keys. "Let's have a look at it, shall we."
Kingsley fumbled with the key ring, which seemed to be snagged on his pants. Finally, with a small ripping sound, it came free, and he hastened to pass it to the glaring witch.
Gently the older woman guided the younger from the holding cell, supporting her unsteady steps. She looked the girl over a bit, screening her modesty from the men with the bulk of her well muscled back. Then turned angrily back to them and proclaimed, in a loud assertive voice: "this child is no Death Eater."
"I have twenty patrons from the Three Broomsticks who'll swear otherwise Miss. Prudholm," Arthur answered.
"Really. Well they must have been deep in their cups. How many Death Eaters go out bare footed, and wearing only a nighty under their cloaks? And look, there's a monogram on her sleeve. LM. Who but Lucius Malfoy would be vain enough to monogram his Death Eater's get up? It would fit three of her. Someone has framed her. If she is a Death Eater, I am a lady of the evening!"
"The two men exchanged a quick, horrified glance at that, then stepped back a pace, trying to look casual about it.
"I'm... I'm sure if there has been a mistake it'll be cleared up soon enough," Kingsley offered.
"How ridiculous. She should be sent home to her parents. What's your name dear?"
"Oh, I'm... hmm... I seem to have forgotten."
The matron drew back in surprise. "Is she simple," she hissed aside to Arthur, as if the girl wouldn't hear.
"Ah... we think perhaps a memory charm. No one in Hogsmeade confessed to using one, but it seems likely."
The matron snorted, apparently finding this response quite unsatisfactory. "Well, what is her name then?"
"Have we got that report yet Kingsley?"
"No Arthur," Kingsley mumbled.
"We don't know yet Miss."
"Maybe we should wake up Malfoy and ask him," Kingsley offered hopefully, in sudden inspiration. "She's wearing his robe, and she was all cozy with him just before you came back..."
The two of them gaped at him in horror.
"Surely not," the matron sputtered.
"That's disgusting, Kingsley," Arthur added. The two turned back to the girl who was listening with polite interest, but not seeming to gather that she was the topic of discussion.
"Did you say she was apprehended in Hogsmeade? That's a long way from tonight's trouble, don't you think. She was probably meant to be a diversion, poor thing."
The two men left Matron Prudholm alone with her charge, but watched surreptitiously as she conjured a set of antiseptic-looking screens, and made a private exam room of them, which she then ushered the girl into. A female medimage soon arrived, only to be ushered behind the screen as well. There was the sound of cutting, and gasps, some angry mutterings, and then Matron Prudholm emerged, looking rather pale and angry.
"Arthur, we are going to need photographs of this," she said, approaching the men at their table. "She has been beaten terribly," the woman whispered, "and it's not the first time. Her back is a mass of scars, some very pale and silvery as if from years ago, some are pink, some red, and then this fresh mess. I think who ever her parents are, they should be hung. And she's been starved as well." Matron Prudholm might have elaborated. She might have described how the girl's ribs resembled a wash board, or how the knobs of her spine seemed to want to poke out through her skin. But she was thinking more how brave the girl was to still be so calm and pleasant, and found she could not speak around the lump in her throat.
"Perhaps it's not a memory charm," Kingsley offered, "perhaps she's gone around the twist."
Under the withering glare of the matron, Kingsley excused himself and went to find the ministry's forensic photographer.
Kingsley had returned and the medimage, the matron, the girl and the photographer were all jammed in together behind Matron Prudholm's screens, when a young auror, named Ebenrood Millpond, burst in.
"Arthur, Kingsley...," he paused to catch his breath, he had been running. His hair flopped untidily into his pale, bulging eyes, "I just got done with Ollivander. You won't believe these wand reports." Looking jubilant, he took the one off the top and shoved it under Arthur's nose, waving it excitedly.
Arthur took it, glanced at the summary, and gave a low appreciative whistle.
"What," Kingsley asked, edging his chair around to look over Arthur's shoulder, and then he whistled too.
"Over two hundred Cruciatus curses," Arthur read, "nearly as many Imperious curses, and two Avada Kedavra. And that's her wand?" he pointed at the screen.
"Not unless she's Narcissa Malfoy," the young man crowed.
Arthur and Kingsley's eyebrows shot up in unison, and they turned to glare at the screen where the girl was still being held; one doubtfully, the other in angry suspicion.
"Polyjuice potion," Kingsley accused.
"No. That would have worn off hours ago, and besides the ID would have identified Narcissa almost immediately if she were simply disguised. I can't think of any magical means she could be using to disguise herself. The wand must have been stolen from Narcissa."
"Or planted by Narcissa."
"Yes, it's right there." Young Millpond pointed to the middle of the page. "The wand was reported broken at the time it was replaced, seven years ago. What's more all the dirty spells occurred before that date, but since that date all the spells are hermetical... Alchemy," he hushed, apparently electrified by the implications.
"I know what hermetical means, Millpond," Kingsley grouched.
"See," the young auror pointed further down the page, "all these are spells related to the creation of the Philosopher's Stone; though no one's been able to make one since Flammel."
"All the real sources on Alchemy are supposed to be in the library of the Department of Mysteries," Arthur mused aloud. "They say you have to work there for years to get to a clearance level high enough to even look at them."
"And look down here," Kingsley pointed toward the bottom of the page. "The wand has been bound. It can't perform any spells of defense or offense, nor any moving or opening spells."
"How peculiar," Arthur puzzled, "so we have a girl of about twenty, who has been beaten severely and repeatedly. She is carrying Narcissa Malfoy's wand, and wearing Lucius Malfoy's death eater's cloak, but little else. She turns up outside a crowded pub, where she could easily have been killed, and nearly did cause a riot. And when she comes to, she has no memory of who she is, or what's been done to her."
"Sounds like a frame to me," Millpond put in.
"I think that's what Arthur just said. But there's more to it than that. If she wasn't so young I'd guess she's been doing Alchemical research, maybe as a captive, which would account for the beatings and the way the wand is bound."
"Maybe one of her parents... but she is too young."
"Unless, she did discover the Philosopher's Stone..." Millpond added, his voice hushed conspiratorially.
"Yeah right!" Kingsley shook his head in disgust at the young auror's audacity.
"She's not exactly a super genius, Millpond. Not at this point anyway," Arthur said pointedly. "I'd say we have enough to haul Narcissa Malfoy in for questioning though. And while we are at it I think we ought to search the place as well. Let's get a writ and give the place a good going over. Can you take care of the writ, Millpond?"
"Sure Arthur, but there's another report you should take a look at first. This one's his," he jerked a thumb at Lucius Malfoy, still sprawled unconscious on the floor, as he handed a second report to his seniors.
Arthur and Kingsley read in silence a moment then looked at each other in amazed disbelief.
"Clean!"
"For the most part. A few nasty jinxes and curses, but as far as the big three go, zip."
"He must have another wand," Arthur grasped.
"Not from Ollivander's. And this one has been in constant use from his school days right up till last night. I had Ollivander go all the way back, thinking something would show."
"Damn! Well, you get that writ Millpond. I want to get this search done before his wife starts covering their tracks. I'll get the warrant for her arrest. Why don't you start getting a team together, Kingsley. Everyone meet back here."
"Will you be coming, Arthur?"
"Hell yes! I've been waiting for this chance for years. Nothing could keep from it."
"Can I come," Millpond asked.
"Uh... we need you to stay and brief Hazeltau and Osbourn. I'll call them in now," Kingsley stepped out into the corridor.
Millpond, looking very downcast turned to Arthur. "If I get them briefed before you leave?"
"Sure. Don't let Kingsley get you down son."
Millpond lit up and dashed out of the room, yelling his thanks over his shoulder.
Arthur was the first to return. He found Matron Prudholm waiting for him. The photographer and medimage were gone. Abruptly the older woman thrust a large, black and white photograph at him. Arthur recoiled, then shook his head in disgust. It was a picture of the girl's back. Her image was blushing, and making attempts to cover-up. The injuries were every bit as bad as he had guessed earlier. And it angered him that she would be the one feeling ashamed.
"Are you still sending her to Azkaban, Arthur? I'm telling you, she's the victim here." She pointed at the girl, who was dressed now in a prisoner's uniform, busily attacking a huge hero sandwich that the matron had purchased for her.
"She has to go. It's up to the wizengamot to decide otherwise. And until we catch who did this to her she'll be safer there than just about anywhere else."
"I'm afraid a stay in that place will be the end of her, Arthur."
"Look, Meg, can you go with her? Stay there with her I mean. Feed her up. Keep her safe and warm?"
"With permission from a senior ministry official," she smiled.
"Done. I'll be out there in the morning with an interrogation team. Have her ready and maybe we'll get to the bottom of this."