WARNING: This is an extremely nasty chapter, containing both mental and physical torture.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Spells That Leave No Mark

Lucius gave a long, luxurious stretch—rather, he thought, like a cat prepared to go hunting. Well, he did not resent the comparison. Cats were noisy and foul-scented enough that he would never tolerate one in the Manor for long—Draco's Kneazle kitten when he was a child had been enough of a burden—but in the abstract, he could accept the idea of grace, and speed, and beauty.

And deadliness to mice.

He checked his preparations carefully one more time. He had the cage of insects. He had the knowledge of curses burning in his head and on his tongue. He had the blank wand. He had the requisite amount of trust in Auror Wilmot to make sure that things went as planned.

He finished the check, and blinked lazily.

Time to go a-hunting.

"Welcome, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius smiled into Wilmot's eyes as he held out his hand for a shake. The pale, hazel-eyed man clasped it with no sign of hesitation, and ignored the small flinch Lucius wanted him to feel at his touching a halfblood. He simply shook, and then moved back to his desk and shuffled through some papers.

"As you know, Mr. Malfoy, the new laws that may make an impact on the activities of Dark families are really quite simple to follow—"

Lucius listened, and smiled and nodded in all the right places to convince someone passing by that this really was all he had come for. The cage of insects sat at his side, glamoured to look like a bag of papers. The blank wand lay in his pocket. He thought more about them than information he had already received from his own contacts in the Ministry long before the laws reached this stage.

Wilmot continued talking, producing more sheaves of paper and shuffling through them with droning enthusiasm. Most of the people who walked past looked at Lucius with pity for being caught up in the Auror's talk. Lucius managed to ignore those glances easily. In fact, he wanted to laugh. Wilmot was a near-perfect actor, and if anyone suspected what Lucius was really here for, he would eat his own hand.

Abruptly, he realized that Wilmot's voice continued, even though the man had stood and reached for his wand. Lucius arched an eyebrow, and raised it higher when he realized that a complicated illusion was in place that maintained images of both himself and Wilmot in their chairs, nodding and chattering respectively. He stood, carefully scanning his own copy. It looked no different than the one he saw in the mirror every day, save for a certain blankness behind the eyes.

"Triggered spell," Wilmot explained, when he saw Lucius looking at him. "It needed a certain amount of time to pass before it could take our likenesses." He waved his wand and murmured a simple glamour spell under his breath, one, Lucius knew, that would not trigger the Ministry's wards into thinking a prisoner was escaping as a Disillusionment Charm would. In moments, Wilmot's features melted and changed into those of a drab Ministry flunky Lucius wouldn't have looked twice at, and from the tingle in his own cheeks, he suspected the same thing had happened to him.

"This way," Wilmot said softly, and walked towards the lifts.

Lucius followed, inwardly exulting in the effectiveness of Aurelius Flint's spy network. Whatever debt Wilmot owed to Nott, it must have been enormous, to make him take so many risks in smuggling Lucius in to torture the Potters.

There was, of course, the chance that Wilmot would betray him later, but Lucius doubted that. Others in the Ministry owed debts that could, with a bit of pressure, be transferred to Lucius. Those others would keep an eye on Wilmot for him.

As they rode the lifts down, Wilmot murmured, "You trusted me to make arrangements to insure you would not be caught. They are done, Mr. Malfoy. And I think you will be pleased with the one who takes your fall."

Lucius gazed into his face, finding it hard to estimate, as always, what the real emotions were like under the glamour. "Who is it?"

Wilmot told him.

Lucius gave a little chuckle. Sometimes, he enjoyed being surprised. This surprise was a pleasant one, given what inconvenience the person was currently causing him. And Wilmot was right in the explanations he gave for his choice. Everyone would believe that this person would torture the Potters.

I could become fond of Wilmot. An intelligent friend in the Ministry, one who managed to survive Scrimgeour's first purge of the Aurors, is a useful thing to have.

"Here we are."

Lucius raised his eyebrows when he realized there were no guards on the cells. He had assumed that Wilmot would arrange to have the usual guards bribed or drugged or otherwise out of the way, but no one appeared to have been here for at least five minutes. Wilmot smiled at him, a mysterious smile that said he valued his own secrets, and cast the spells that unlocked James Potter's door and took the glamour from Lucius's face.

Lucius lifted the cage with the insects and stepped within. Behind him, the door shut and locked again. Lucius was unconcerned. He knew spells that would make Wilmot regret leaving him in here if he tried it, and Wilmot knew he knew them. It was always so pleasant to understand one's associates. In fact, Lucius was more than usually pleased with the world today. He did hope that wouldn't affect the way that he planned to torture James Potter. He would hate to think he was being kind.

The cell was too large for someone who had committed Potter's crimes, and too soft. James lay curled on the bed in one corner, his shoulder hunched. He tensed a bit when he heard the door open, but didn't turn to see who it was. Lucius had no impression so strong as that of a sulky child, trying to convey the impression of stern strength in ignoring intruders. In reality, of course, the impression James conveyed was of a pouting lip.

Lucius set the cage on the floor and removed the glamour. Then he said, "Hello, Potter."

James sat up and whirled around. The ghost-like pallor to his face told Lucius that he'd recognized his visitor. He had to swallow several times before he could say anything, though. Lucius watched the performance all the way through, finding it immensely entertaining. He wondered if James often demanded water from the guards, whether he had to work up to all his speeches the way he was working up to this one, and whether he would say anything worthwhile when he did finally speak.

It was not so much a surprise as a disappointment when he didn't. "I'm not afraid of you, Malfoy," he tried.

"Of course you're not." Lucius pulled the blank wand from his pocket. It came to life in his hands with a soft thrum. This was part of the task it had been made for, and it would perform the spells required of it for that task, then go dead. Thus Lucius avoided any suspicion of using his own wand, which he'd been required to register when he entered the Ministry. "That's why you're shaking, Potter. It happens to be cold, with a high wind, in here. Why not fool yourself, since you have been doing so for so long?"

James all but vibrated, leaning forward and just catching himself as he was about to tumble off the bed. "You can't do anything to me, Malfoy. Do you realize what would happen if Harry found out? If Scrimgeour found out?"

"Yes," said Lucius. "Probably better than you do, since I know both your son and the Minister, while you have hidden behind your own ignorance for more than a decade." He touched the cage with the blank wand. The bars went transparent, though they didn't open as yet. The insects inside began flinging themselves madly against the front. Lucius wondered how long it would take for James to notice them. "That is why they are not going to find out."

James gave a long, liquid snort. "You can't possibly disguise whatever you intend to do, Malfoy."

"Yes, I can," said Lucius softly.

James went on, undaunted. Or perhaps he thought that if he ignored what Lucius said, the problem would go away. That was his modus operandi, from what Lucius understood of him. "I've just written a letter to Harry. He knows me better than you do. He understands the good in people. He'll come save me. You shouldn't be here when he comes, if you know what's good for you, and he could show up at any moment."

Lucius's amusement froze, and then cracked and fell away. He didn't change his expression, of course. He did not wish to do so. The news that James Potter had written their Potter filled him with rage like dry ice, and then pleasure as cold as the amusement had turned.

"James Potter," he said, "abuser of children, coward, imbecile, disgrace to the name of pureblood wizard, this will be a positive pleasure." He tapped the front of the cage with the blank wand, and murmured the incantation that released the insects, stepping out of the way as he did so.

A deep buzz filled the room as the insects soared free, a whirling swarm like that of mosquitoes, though much bigger. They swirled twice, wavered as if they would head for Lucius—though he wore a repelling charm already—and then oriented on James.

"No," said James, though he couldn't possibly know what they were.

Lucius didn't bother to respond. He savored the shocked and horrified look on James's face just before the starving insects dove at him.

Hundreds of small crooked legs bearing barbed pincers on the end hooked into James's flesh. He screamed as the long beaks lowered and hooked in after them, but Lucius knew no one would hear him; the cells bore Silencing Charms to prevent the prisoners from annoying each other. Lucius stepped slightly to the side, to get a better view, as James half-vanished under the black cloud, all the while screaming in horror and pain.

Then the insects began to shrink. Lucius closed his eyes to savor the way James's cries lifted, soaring. The pain did not vanish when the insects dug in, of course. It became keener, from hundreds of pinpricks to hundreds of red-hot irons, all focused on an inch of skin or less.

When he looked again, Lucius had the treat of seeing the insects pass into James's body. They slipped through pores, they turned into smoke and wafted in through his eyes and nostrils, they kicked into his armpits and burrowed in. The holes they created vanished as they went inside. The pain would stay there, but there was no sign of bites or stings. Strictly speaking, what the insects had fastened on was James's magical self, and not his physical one.

James stopped screaming and stared at his unmarked arms in bewilderment. Lucius leaned on the wall, smiling. He wasn't surprised when James raised his eyes to him and snapped, "What the fuck did you do to me? What was the point of that?"

"You have no idea," Lucius said pleasantly. "And it will stay that way."

In truth, the insects were coursing through James's bloodstream now, blending with his tissues, becoming part of his body in the way that his bones were. They would search out some sign of Dark magic. That was how the healers of the past had used them, to eat curses that no ordinary mediwizardry could take care of. Most victims suffered no pain when the insects dug in, since the curses offered them food, and the healers would remove the bugs the moment their task was completed.

James had no Dark curses on him. The insects had to burrow into his magic instead. They would search every corner of him, but when they found none of the food they preferred, they would make their own. James had just become home to a thriving colony of insects whose presence would go entirely unnoticed and unremarked for a year, perhaps two.

Then the disturbance in his body would manifest as cancer. Lucius rather suspected that it would appear full-blown in every part of his body cancer could appear in, that he would experience horrible pain, that he would know he was going to die for several months on end—intolerable to a coward like him. The Healers would shake their heads, but they would not be able to tell the difference between a natural and magical cancer. By then, there would be no trace of the insects to be found. And why should anyone suspect or look for them, when it was entirely uncommon for the insects to be used in medical practice anymore?

James Potter would die now. Lucius rather hoped the Wizengamot would leave him alive, and condemn him to Tullianum. A few short, miserable years, and then death inevitable and undeniable. If the Ministry cut that short with one of their painless executions, Lucius would be annoyed.

At least he had the anticipation to savor, and the belief that the Wizengamot would not hand down a death sentence. James had only been charged with neglect. They were less likely to think that that crime deserved one.

James said, "Of course I'm going to tell Harry about this. I don't know what you did, but he will. How in the world do you think you're going to get away with this, Lucius?"

"I didn't give you permission to call me by my first name, Mr. Potter," said Lucius. "And I prefer getting away with it to having you know what I have done. Don't worry, you'll have plenty of unpleasant anticipation of pain in the future." As James opened his mouth, frowning, Lucius aimed the blank wand at him and added, in a casual voice, "Obliviate."

James's face went slack, and he blinked. Lucius said softly, "You've been asleep. You had a painful dream, but that's nothing unusual for a man accused as unfairly as you've been, is it? I think you should go to sleep, James, and not quite remember what the dream is about. It would be best."

James dropped to the bed, limp as a doll, and rolled over. Lucius stepped backwards and tapped on the door in the prearranged pattern that let Wilmot know it was time to let him out. The cage floated behind him as he stepped into the hall, and Wilmot reset the locking spells, all the while darting curious glances at Lucius.

"He'll suffer," was all that Lucius thought it necessary to say in response to that glance.

Wilmot nodded, and then let him towards Lily Potter's cell. Lucius felt pleasure stretch in him like a cat in the sun, and smiled as the first curse twitched behind his lips.

She did more. She will suffer more. And no one will suspect me. This has all the ingredients of a wonderful afternoon.

Lily sighed. She knew this was a dream, because of the softness of the ground beneath her feet and the incredible, surreal richness of the sky over her head, but that didn't stop her from wishing it were true.

In the dream, she stood on the lawn outside their old home, the house at Godric's Hollow, and watched Connor play. He was skipping a stone across the pond, cheering as it went further and further with each try, and laughing as the chips of mica in the stone bounced the sun back. It was such an innocent game. No one was hurt. Lily could not help thinking that Connor was inherently better than other children, but surely it helped that he had been reared in such peaceful surroundings, not taught violence. It was love that would defeat Voldemort, and Connor knew love.

Harry stood beside her, watching his brother in silence. Lily turned and gazed down at him. He was taller than this now, she knew, but then, Connor was a child, so Harry could be a child—in body. He had never been a child in mind, not since she started training him and he started understanding the importance of his task. He turned his head up and looked at her, and contentment shone in his eyes. He knew the real importance of the prophecy. Yes, he had been the one who deflected the Killing Curse and destroyed Voldemort, but the heart, the core, the thing that would win the war, was love. So even though he knew the truth now, he was still content to yield place and precedence to his brother. He could remain in the background because he was ultimately less loving than Connor.

Lily ruffled Harry's hair, and listened to Connor's laughter, and fought against the remembrance that things had ever been different. She would have to wake up sometime, but why, oh why, did it have to be now? All the world was wonderful again. She had been right. Her sacrifices were acknowledged and agreed with. There was no son turning against her, no strange and savage knowledge that she might have been wrong staring her in the face, no one telling her that she had abused her children when she had simply done what she could to prepare them for war. She liked this dream.

"Mum?"

Lily smiled down at Connor. He hadn't spoken in that particular needy tone in years, since he had decided that he was a big boy and could take care of himself. "Yes, Connor?"

"I have something to show you." He held out the flat stone he'd been skipping, so that Lily could admire the way those same flecks of mica that had flashed the sun back were shifting and changing. "See! Do you think it's accidental magic, or something else?"

"Let me see." Lily bent down to look, adoring the warmth of the light on her face and the sweet scent of her son and Harry's silent presence at her back. This was life, the life they all should have had. This was reality.

Connor smashed the stone into the side of her head.

The shattering of her dream was almost worse than the intense pain that flooded her. Lily felt herself drop, and then she lay on the warm grass, staring up at Connor. Behind her, she heard Harry laugh, as he never did. The laugh was mocking, and Connor smiled the same way as he stood over her, bouncing the bloodied stone in his palm.

"Why?" Lily managed to whisper, and then she coughed on blood that shouldn't be there, not when all she'd taken was a blow to the side of the head.

"Because I hate you," said Connor, his smile gone and his eyes suddenly narrow with dislike. Lily felt her heart break. Connor's eyes were hazel, just like James's, and looking into them now was like having James hate her, the way he might if he knew about Harry's training. "You didn't prepare me for war. You kept me innocent all along. And now I'm so far behind, and struggling to catch up, and Merlin, I just hate you!" He gave a loud sob, and then knelt beside her and smashed the stone down again.

Lily couldn't move. Dimly she felt more and more smacks, the shattering of her skull and the spattering of her brains, but the keener sensation was Harry's laugh, which she heard for all but the very few moments before death claimed her.

Lily awoke and sat up with a gasp. She was in her bed in the cell at the Ministry, and for the first time ever, she was grateful to be there. She shivered, gripping her arms and bowing her head.

"Potter?"

Lily looked up swiftly, then relaxed. An Auror had entered, but this was one of the guards who had always been kind to her, slipping her extra food on the sly and never making fun of her for not being able to use magic, the way some of the others did. Her name was Elizabeth, and now she regarded Lily with wonder and unease in her brown eyes, slowly lowering her wand.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"A horrible dream," Lily whispered. She said it with such emotion in her voice, emotion she hadn't even known herself capable of, that Elizabeth tucked her wand away altogether and came to sit down beside Lily, smoothing her sweat-soaked hair off her forehead.

"It's all right," Elizabeth whispered. "That takes people, sometimes, near the trials. And of course you've been having more than your fair share of nightmares." Lily took comfort in her anger. It wasn't right that nightmares from a curse had tortured her, was it? And after all she had given up for the war. It was no more right than the fact that neither of her sons ever visited her, than the twisted idea Harry had that she'd abused him because she wanted to. She hadn't wanted to. It was a choice between sacrificing him and letting the world fall into darkness. It was only due to the training he'd had that he could face Voldemort at all. And she would have done everything differently, anyway, if she'd known at the time that Harry was the one who had deflected the Killing Curse. He would have had training because of his powerful magic, but she would never have thought of him as a potential Dark Lord.

A dull axe cut into the back of her neck.

Lily gasped and tried to stand, but Elizabeth's arm curved around her, keeping her right where she was. Lily stared into the Auror's pleasant face and smiling eyes, and then suddenly realized it was a mask, a glamour. Someone else was under the glamour—Auror Mallory, who had arrested her and made her life a living hell when she first arrived here. Lily screamed.

Mallory laughed, and held her still as the axe rose and then cut down again. It took a long time. A human neck was thick, and when an executioner wasn't committed to doing his task properly, it might take as many as fifteen cuts to slice through all that flesh and bone and muscle…

Lily counted twenty-two cuts before death came for her, as a mercy.

Lucius fought to still his twitching lips as he stood in a corner of Lily Potter's cell and watched her experience her visions. The Neco Identidem curse linked his mind to hers, and let him see, if he chose to, exactly what she was feeling and thinking as the spell went into operation. Currently, she had died five times, and she was starting to notice and suspect and dread the death the moment she awoke in another dream. Lucius had to admit he was a bit impressed at her creativity, though by far the most rewarding part of this whole curse was her fear as she perished. That really was what dying was like. Lucius admired his own creativity, too. Even if the Wizengamot sentenced Lily Potter to execution, as Lucius thought would most likely happen, she could only die once. That was not enough to pay for her crimes.

And then an idea occurred to him. A delicious idea. An idea he knew he could put into motion, though it would mean giving up the repetitions of the Neco Identidem curse and the other mental assaults he'd planned. Lucius straightened and stared at Lily Potter.

There was also the chance, the smallest and most infinitesimal chance, that an Auror experienced in Dark Arts would sense the spell, and Auror Wilmot's fall wizard was not someone who would use this particular curse. It could lead to Lucius getting caught.

He was a Slytherin. He weighed the risk of being caught in his head against the smallness of it, and the pleasure it would give him to enact this revenge, and the binding that his family had to Harry Potter. Then he nodded.

He would roll the dice.

He raised the Neco Identidem curse, and Lily Potter whimpered and slid into true sleep. Lucius smiled, distantly, even as he began to move in precise, controlled gestures. She might as well remain asleep for this portion of the invocation. Lucius was not about to tell her its purpose, anyway.

He extended the blank wand above his head, and whispered, "Lamnae cruore adoleo."

The air trembled in front of him, and the knife-blade formed, gleaming, near his left arm. That meant Lucius was ready for the sacrifice he had just promised to make. If he had not been sincere, the knife would never have formed at all.

He turned his arm sideways, and the skin split. Lucius felt fire trace its way up his veins. He didn't flinch. Cold followed it. He might have been a statue. The knife filled the cut with spiky, jagged pain, and still Lucius did not move, staring at the blade, the knowledge of what he would accomplish with this spell, this ritual, this sacrifice, obviating any response to the agony.

At last, he bled. The knife turned, catching the blood on its blade. Then it hovered, still, in place. Lucius would have to enact the second part of the spell himself. Everything about this ritual was a choice, with multiple chances to turn back. The wizards who had created this particular branch of Dark Arts had wanted to insure that only the strongest reached the end and achieved the desired results.

"Concedo adflictationem me," he murmured.

Then he had to close his eyes and stand still as his entire body tingled and went numb. All sensation ended. He could no longer feel the pain from the cut, the blood trickling on his skin, the knife pressed against the wound, his heartbeat against his chest. If he moved, if he panicked, the spell would break. He had to wait as the knife drew his own pain into it. When he opened his eyes, at last, and a tendril of sensation began to return, the knife glowed a brilliant yellow, pregnant with pain.

"Adflictationem indigeo annalis," he said.

The knife trembled. Lucius felt brief, whip-like spikes of magic brush past his head. The summoned power might decide to obey him, and it might not. In that moment, his dedication to the Dark was measured, and his commitment to his revenge, and his motive for seeking that revenge. No one but a Dark wizard desiring vengeance could cast this spell. Lucius stood in silence and endured the inspection. He was confident that he would pass muster.

The knife turned and flew to Lily Potter, scoring a shallow cut on the back of her neck. The yellow light flowed from the blade into the wound. Again she whimpered, and again she failed to wake.

Lucius closed his eyes, and relaxed. A simple healing spell took care of the cut on his arm, and he slid his long robe sleeve—specially fitted to hide the Dark Mark from casual view—back across it. No one should look for it. This spell was not exactly common, precisely because it was so hard to cast.

As he watched the agony pour into the woman who had abused a child with Lord-level magical power, he was satisfied. He had asked for as much pain as the spell would grant him. He would have been within his rights to ask for more, he thought, considering what had happened to Harry, but he would then have had to use a ritual that required objects he didn't have with him and which had a much higher chance of both failing and getting him caught. Few people would look for this. The cut was hidden by Potter's hair. The wand that had cast the spell was not his own.

And another had agreed to take the fall.

The last of the yellow light vanished from the blade, and then the knife, too, dissipated. Created by the spell, it could not last past the effects of the curse. Lucius stretched his arms above his head and nodded to Harry's mother.

"For bearing the boy my son loves, I thank you," he said. "For abusing him, I hate you, and always shall." The words were almost meaningless after all he had done to her, but he felt better for saying them. They disclaimed any hint of a debt that he might owe the woman. When dealing with Dark Arts spells of this caliber, it was always best to be sure that the caster suffered from no ties to the victim.

Lily Potter would almost surely be executed. When she was, the execution would be painless and take only a few minutes in the eyes of anyone watching. Lucius planned to attend it himself.

Now, though, he would have the satisfaction of knowing that, however little time it took in reality, in Lily Potter's perception it would seem to last for much longer. She would suffer a year of unending pain in the space of those few moments, the stored agony in her body exploding through her veins. Lucius had given her as much pain as he could imagine her suffering, and that was quite a lot.

He still regretted that he could not have given her a decade of anguish. But that was too risky. He would be satisfied with what he could get.

He woke Potter long enough to cast Obliviate on her and tell her that she would remember only bad dreams, then tossed the blank wand in the air and concentrated on the nonverbal spell that he had told Ollivander to implant into it. The wand burst into flames, and burned away to light ashes that drifted down over Lucius's face and hands. He brushed them off absently and went to the door. No Aurors looking for traces of the wand that had cast these spells would be able to find them now.

Again, he knocked in the prearranged signal. Again, Auror Wilmot opened the door and let him out, but this time he was not alone. With him was the person he had chosen to take the fall and the blame for Lucius's actions.

Lucius arched an eyebrow when he saw that she wasn't restrained or drugged or under Imperius, but looking at him with bright, clear eyes. "Auror Mallory," he said, and bowed. "I am somewhat surprised to see you here."

Mallory shook her head. Now that Lucius thought of it, her eyes did have a gloss to them, but it was the look of fever. Whatever fire consumed her came from the inside and the inside alone. "I would not have lasted much longer," she said. "I longed to hurt them. Now, they are hurt, and I will cast curses to make Rufus believe that I did it. Vengeance is taken, and justice is done." She paused, as if she had to think about the next words. "I am happy."

"You know that you'll be sacked and prosecuted?" Lucius had not really believed Wilmot when he indicated that Mallory was going along with this of her own free will.

"I know." Mallory looked half-restless, twirling her wand between her fingers. "It will be worth it. I have not been able to stand it, seeing the reporters at the Daily Prophet and even some of the people in the Ministry turning against Harry. I wanted to hurt the Potters so badly, but Rufus forbade it. Well, now I'll be able to get my wish, and my spells will conceal the greater pain that you dealt them." Her eyes narrowed at Lucius. "I don't want to know the details just in case something slips out, but you dealt them pain?"

Lucius nodded. "I did."

"Good," said Mallory. The glaze in her eyes had turned to a joyous one as she opened the door to Lily Potter's cell and slipped inside.

Wilmot locked the door again, and shook his head. "She's been quite mad for weeks now," he confirmed, when Lucius looked at him. "She would eventually have gone after them herself, I believe—damn her position and her morals and everything else. They'll know that she could have; she was the one who sent away the guards on the doors. And as long as she confesses to her crimes freely, they have no reason to try her under Veritaserum and look for further things she might be hiding. Scrimgeour's too honorable for that, anyway." Wilmot curled his lip. "Almost the whole Ministry is mad, either for Potter or against him. A few hints, and she took the bait."

"Why aren't you mad?" Lucius asked.

Wilmot laughed softly, a barking sound. "I don't quite feel like giving away all my secrets, Mr. Malfoy."

"The ones I possess are safe with me," said Lucius. He had no reason to question Wilmot in such a way as might make the Auror decide he was a threat. He wanted his useful friend to stay safe in the Ministry. "And who do you believe will become Head of the Auror Office, now that Mallory is disgraced?"

Wilmot shrugged as he recast the glamour over their faces and they walked back towards the lifts. "There are several people the choice might fall on. Scrimgeour won't be able to just make the appointment this time, not when his last choice tortured prisoners. Personally, I think the most likely candidate is Priscilla Burke."

Lucius laughed.

Wilmot shot him a curious glance. "What?"

"She is a person I approve, though never one I would have thought likely to ascend to the post," said Lucius. And now we have more and more friends within the Ministry, and someone who will glance the other way as long as we keep our games within reason. Better and better.

They returned easily to Wilmot's desk, resumed their seats and their apparent boring conversation, and dismissed the glamours. Lucius rose to his feet a few minutes later and extended a hand to Wilmot.

"A pleasure, Auror Wilmot," he said ceremoniously. "We shall have to do this again sometime."

"Yes, we should." Wilmot clasped his hand and met his eyes with no trace of hiding or flinching. "I have my own reasons to hope that the laws impacting Dark wizards are reconsidered, Mr. Malfoy, and to approve what happened today. I hope that you won't hesitate to seek me out if you need help again."

Lucius inclined his head, and then left, the cage that had held the insects bobbing beside him in its glamoured disguise. He had punished the Potters, got rid of a Head of the Auror Office who could have been a thorn in his side as he reestablished his influence in the Ministry, and secured a useful friend for the future.

All in all, it had been a very good day.