[MINERVA MCGONAGALL]
Minerva McGonagall wrings her nervous hands continuously as she watches her dear friend pace back and forth behind his desk.
Neither of them speak, they simply wait for their colleagues to arrive. Dumbledore glances at the fireplace each time he turns on his heel, his half-moon spectacles glittering in the lamplight so that his expression is indiscernible.
Minerva is about to open her mouth to request an explanation – she had been hastily summoned from Mister Krum's bedside here in the Hogwarts' hospital wing, where she, Bill, and Poppy were dutifully fighting the symptoms of his Dark Mark as they arose. But before she can get a word out, the grate blazes with green flame, and Alastor Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt emerge from the hearth one by one.
Both wizards' faces are hard as stone. Dumbledore ceases his pacing, standing squarely behind his chair with his wizened hands braced on its handsome back. His intense gaze pierces the two men with what could almost be described as a rabid interest, and he bites out, "Well?"
Moody wastes no time, "The wee thing is back at Grimmauld Place. She got herself back about three hours ago." McGonagall furrows her brow in confusion, only just now hearing that the muggle girl had left again after she and Viktor's less than ideal return from Malfoy Manor. "She's sleepin' now," Moody continues, almost as an afterthought, "Sirius was the one who opened the door for her. He's not happy, suspects somethin'. From what I can tell she told him she was with me."
Dumbledore nods, but turns his sharp gaze to Kingsley. The midnight-skinned wizard's eyes are round with shock, his hands limp at his sides. "Are you trying to tell me," he says weakly, "that that girl is behind the rumors plaguing the Ministry this morning?" Minerva frowns. It's only six o'clock. What possible dramatics could have already begun?
What exactly did Finnie do?
"I understand you cannot stay," Dumbledore says to Kingsley in a businesslike tone, "for I imagine the Ministry is going to be bombarded with the lingering effects of Miss Sjofn's late-night wanderings for some time-"
"If she is actually responsible for what they're saying happened-," Kingsley interrupts with an angrier tone.
"That," Dumbledore interrupts right back, "is precisely what we are about to find out."
He reaches a long-fingered hand into his lilac-colored sleeve and emerges with a small vial which swirls, filled with a silvery, near-translucent liquid. A memory.
Minerva's frown deepens. "Why don't we simply ask Finnie about what happened?" she says rather archly.
A small smile tips up the corners of Dumbledore's mouth, hiding in his impressive mustache. He holds the vial up to a lamp and peers at it. "Call me overly-cautious," he murmurs, "but I do quite prefer to see proof of events with my own eyes."
"Well you were right about one thing," Kingsley rumbles out, sounding exhausted, "I can't stay. The Ministry is in absolute chaos over this." He's flicked some floo powder into the grate, not having strayed far from the hearth in the first place.
As the flames turn green he aims a sharp look over his shoulder at Moody and says, "Fill me in on what you discover. Regardless if she was behind it or not, I suspect we will likely see some form of retribution before we see them hanging up their masks in surrender." And on that somber note, he steps into the fire, and whooshes from sight.
More alarmed than ever, Minerva turns her thin-lipped gaze back to the Headmaster, who is removing the stopper from the vial and preparing to pour it into his Pensieve. Alastor wordlessly approaches the desk, limping past the aged witch as she stubbornly stays rooted in the center of the carpet.
"Wait just a blast-ended minute!" she snaps. Her companions' faces turn to meet her frustrated gaze with wide-eyed innocence.
She huffs with impatience, "What, precisely, happened last night?"
Another moment of silence passes as the two men glance at each other. "Outside," Minerva continues exasperatedly, "of the borderline disastrous reconnaissance mission."
"The girl had me take her back to the Manor," Mad-Eye growls out, his magical eye staring at the unstoppered vial of memory. "Said she noticed an opportunity to carry out her purpose."
"And you just left her?" McGonagall is horrified. Finnie had been coated with mud and blood when she made it back, certainly in no state to continue her covert affairs.
"She's a professional," Moody snaps back, clearly tired of this re-hashed argument, "She's not any use to us if we baby her all the bloody time."
Before Minerva can open her mouth to retort, Dumbledore speaks over both of them. "I acquired this memory," he says in a clear, relaxed voice, "from a very young, very small, Romanian girl who was escorted to London Bridge Hospital approximately three and a half hours ago."
He pours the memory into the Pensieve, the other two participants finally staying silent. "She spun a tale," he continues quietly, "of unfortunate, traumatic captivity at the hands of evil men and women who could control her…as if by magic." McGonagall's mouth twists with unease, not certain if she wishes to delve into this poor girl's memory. Dumbledore's eyes stay glued to the surface of the Pensieve, which is now swirling with agitation. "I think she was quite relieved to tell me her account," he says softly, "for she perhaps could sense that I did not think her words untrue."
He straightens suddenly, looking to his witch and wizard companions expectantly. "Shall we?" he clips out, looking particularly at McGonagall who still stands several paces away. With a sigh she steps forward. Without hesitating, once next to the desk, she closes her eyes and begins to lower her upper body towards the great, stone bowl.
She feels the tip of her nose break the surface, and, without pause, she's falling through the memory. After a few seconds, she opens her eyes to look around. Beside her, having immediately followed, stand both Albus and Alastor.
They are standing at the edge of the Malfoy property. At their backs is the beginning of the woods, which Minerva recalls is the point which any wizard or witch would need to reach in order to apparate off-grounds. She feels a small fissure of unease, her senses telling her that someone is hidden in the forest nearby, waiting. She peers with narrowed eyes at the tree trunks and bracken, but no obvious shapes emerge. No shadows move. She turns back to her companions who are facing forward, watching several figures approach across the vast lawn.
A wave of disgust washes over McGonagall as she recognizes two of the Death Eaters approaching the property line. Walden McNair and Theo Nott Sr. stagger slightly, clearly having had enjoyed a bottle of something strong at the festivities. Behind them marches a thin young man with acne and greasy blonde hair, a Carrow cousin by the look of him. Distaste curls her lip further as she notices McNair holding a chain. Stumbling behind him, for his weaving strides must be difficult to mimic, walks the ill-fated young muggle captive, nude but for manacles wrapped around both her slight wrists.
Minerva struggles to study the scene with an impartial eye, intent on gathering the facts. However, at the sight of the young girl's chaffed wrists, pale bruised body, and dead blue eyes, the old witch finds herself wishing she were not in a memory at all, but facing these brutes herself.
"I don' see why we cannae just go to my house," McNair grumbles as they trip along. "I've got a much better set up for-," he turns and wiggles his eyebrows at the girl, giving her a sloppy leer, "-extended activities."
Bile threatens to choke Minerva, but the young girl barely flinches – her long, dark hair sways about her waist and occludes her expression.
"I'm not going all the fucking way to Glasgow just to get my cock wet, surrounded by your collection of leather riding crops," Nott Sr. snaps back, clearly irritated. "My place is right across from the Thames downtown. Much more convenient for dumping her later."
The greasy-haired youth snickers will ill-disguised anticipation. McNair gives a disgruntled yank on the chain, making the small girl stagger with a cry. "Fine," the executioner grunts, "You lead the way then."
The three wizards reach out to grasp each other's forearms for side-along apparation. However, as they step across the tree line and prepare to vanish, a dark shadow falls elegantly from a tree just overhead. The shadow lands neatly upon the shoulders of the youngest Death Eater, but before the disruption is noticed, the entire memory crumbles as the gathering apparates.
Minerva blinks rapidly, her heart pounding. The setting reforms; they've been transported to an extremely dark, horrifyingly grimy alleyway somewhere in central London. She can smell the stink of the polluted Thames nearby, adding to the unpleasant roll of her stomach.
It takes a of couple seconds for her thoughts to reorganize, and for her to be able to focus on the scene unfolding before her eyes.
The acne-faced Death Eater sways where he stands, and it takes a moment for Minerva to spy a dark, leather-clad arm wound around his slight waist, holding him up from behind. Far more alarming is his throat, sliced clean from ear to ear. Like a waterfall, his lifeblood pours out – staining his front and splashing onto the filthy cobblestones at his feet.
His wand falls useless from his limp hand, and is immediately snapped by a combat boot worn by the figure still crouched behind his thin form.
The remaining two Death Eaters howl with shock – belatedly comprehending. They back away from their colleague, almost on reflex. Nott Sr. has his wand up and screeches, "Avada Kedav-!" But before he can complete the curse, another glove-covered hand flits out from behind the dying Death Eater's frame and flicks a small blade lightning-fast in the direction of his wand.
"NO STICKS," a firm, achingly familiar voice trills from behind her first victim. Minerva's hand flutters to her throat in astonishment, but beside her she hears small huffs of what can only be chuckles coming from Moody. McGonagall whips around to glance at him, but changes direction almost immediately as his magical and non-magical eyes are both glued to Nott Sr.
Her lined mouth falls open as she sees the blade, just a half-second ago thrown, has been embedded in Nott's outstretched hand. It carved a path down his wand, which is now split in two lengthwise, and continued slicing through his middle two fingers before coming to a halt in the center of his palm. Blood and bone shine in an otherworldly way, illuminated only by the stars and by the dim glow of the far-away streetlamps. He trips backwards, clutching the wrist of his ruined hand. His mouth opens and closes – spittle flying in agony – but no sound emerges from his lips.
McNair, still holding the chain of the child, whips his wand like a matador, looking as enraged. But Finnie uses the dying Death Eater as a shield, crouching behind him as the silent curse opens his body from collar to nape. His entrails sluggishly emerge from the wound, drawn down to his hips by gravity before slipping onto the pavement. So fast she's a blur, Finnie shifts the boy downwards and emerges above his falling form with a black handgun paired with a silencer. "Did-," she shoots McNair's wand hand, forcing him to drop it. "I-," she shoots his opposite hand, the one holding the chain, which he also drops with a wail. "Fucking-," she shoots one of his knees, collapsing him as blood explodes from the wound. "Stutter?" she finishes, stepping over the now-dead, acne-faced youth and striding forward.
Minerva's eyes grow wide in their wrinkled sockets as she takes in all of their hard work. Finnie stands tall, clad in all black from her booted feet to her drawn-up hood. She wears a hooded sweatshirt beneath a black leather jacket, both of which hide her curves. Her black jeans slouch down her legs androgynously, tucked into the boots. Still poised in one gloved hand is her gun, but Minerva knows there is another one holstered at the small of her back. Several handles of other goblin-made blades sit strapped to her person, at her ankles, thighs, and waist. But the most sinister detail of her transformation, the piece Minerva knows these Death Eaters will never forget, is the mask.
Plain white, with a small, upturned mouth and delicate nose, the mask elevates Finnie from worthy foe…to the subject of nightmares. Her blank, dead, black eyes are all that can be seen through the appropriate holes, with additional small holes at the nostrils and a very small one at the mouth allowing her voice to carry.
Nott Sr. abruptly turns on his heel and prepares to run, still clutching his mutilated wand hand. A quick flick of her handgun incapacitates him as well, his knee bursting in a firework of red.
"Stay very, very still," Finnie tells them as she approaches, her boots thudding ominously on the cobblestones. "If you move overly much, I'll have to assume you're trying to be threatening. And when I feel threatened, I overreact." She taps the side of her firearm against her leg almost absentmindedly. The clicking sound it makes echoes off of the alley walls. The air is punctuated by the sound of the wizards' pained gasping, their fresh wounds tinging the air with the smell of copper and death.
Finnie strides purposefully up to Nott Sr., who sits in the grime. He's shaking with pain but glares at her with gritted teeth. She drops to a swift crouch in front of him, tilting her masked head to the side inquiringly. But when she speaks there is no question. "Take off your cloak," she instructs cheerfully, sounding positively demented. Nott Sr. begins to sneer, and open his mouth for what promises to be a scathing retort.
But before he can slip any words past his gnarled, stained teeth, Finnie whips her head to the side and lifts her gun so fast Minerva's eyes simply cannot follow. POP – POP – POP – Finnie fires three times, all shots finding their mark in quick succession. McNair gasps in horror and anguish as each bullet penetrates his crotch-region, one bloodied hand frozen in midair as it was poised to touch his Dark Mark – to presumably call for aid. As his tortured cry echoes into the night, her smooth façade turns back to Nott Sr. "Why-," she pleads to him, accenting each word with a wave of her gun, "-does nobody fucking listen to me?" She shakes her hooded head in exasperation. "I say I can outdrink an auror, nobody fucking believes me. I say I can handle a few Death Eaters, no problem, nobody believes me. And-" Her voice getting shriller as she continues, "-I say I over-fucking-react when I feel threatened, and nobody believes me! Do I look like someone who lies?"
She pauses, gazing expectantly at Nott Sr. with her soulless black eyes. The grizzled Death Eater does nothing, staying silent as his companion screams. After a moment, he pointedly turns his head to the side and spits on the stones next to Finnie's booted foot.
"Alright," the muggle woman stands quickly, "I can tell you're just in the mood to be difficult." Looming over Nott's crumpled, prostrate form, she continues, "How about this," she aims her firearm, "If you take your cloak off, I'll let you keep your dick."
The Death Eater's mouth twists in pure hate. Grunting with the effort, as any movement jostles his shattered knee, he grudgingly begins to fumble for the clasp of his handsome, formal cloak with his good hand.
Finnie nods once it unclasps and falls in a heap around him. "Perfect," she chimes as though praising a mentally-handicapped student, "Now toss it over there." She inclines her head to the right.
With a sharp inhale of pain, Nott tosses the cloak. Almost immediately Finnie begins giggling wildly.
The cacophony of her giggles mixed with the pained sobs of McNair raises the hair of Minerva's arms. Nott Sr. finally seems to lose some of his furious courage, and his lined face falters as he stares at the masked figure, doubled over with laughter above him.
"R-r-remember…," she rasps out, straightening as her giggles subside, "Remember w-when I asked if I look l-like someone who lies?" Nott's eyes widen with fright and horror, and he suddenly reaches for the sleeve of his left arm, despite his mangled hand.
Finnie continues to chuckle softly as she raises the gun to his crotch, unfortunately exposed due to his having landed in a splayed fashion. Before his ruined fingers can ease the sleeve up past his wrist, she begins systematically shooting him in the groin, mumbling through her smile, "Plot twist, super-chief."
POP – POP – POP
Finnie fires three more shots, easing them up his chest until the final shot lands in the center of his face, right between the eyes.
With a sigh, she turns to collect the cloak resting several meters away. Minerva feels herself shaking, and refuses to even spare a glance to her companions at the risk of missing the minutest detail.
Finnie shakes out the cloak, her weapon still held haphazardly in one gloved hand. With determined strides, her booted feet making very little noise, she holds it up out of the filth while making her way to the opposite side of the alley. Her steps slow as she nears, and with a start McGonagall realizes that she's approaching the chained muggle child.
"Put this on," Finnie says to the girl, softly. Some of the tension in Minerva's muscles loosen at the sound of her kind, placating tone.
Here is the Finnie I thought I knew.
The muggle child's manacles clink as her shaking hands rise to grasp the thick material. Her pale, shockingly blue eyes gaze up at her masked protector with a heart-breaking mixture of fear, disbelief, and worship. No tears well up; no screams emerge. Silently, the dark-haired waif clutches the warmth to her small body, overwhelmed simply to be covered and unable to take the time to wrap it around herself properly.
Finnie holsters her firearm and reaches impatient hands out to the girl, who doesn't even flinch. With deft fingers, the shadow-woman peels back the child's grasp in order to whisk the full garment across her slight shoulders, securing it tightly in the front.
"Okay," the muggle woman's voice behind her mask sounds strained, "I need you to turn around now. Face the wall, and shut your eyes."
With a small measure of defiance, the girl blinks her large, lamp-like orbs once, but slowly turns and faces the brick wall behind her. As the girl squeezes her eyes shut, Minerva, Dumbledore, and Moody experience the sensation as well. The scene grows fuzzy then darkens completely, but though they stand in what now appears to be a limbo-like abyss, the sounds of the alley still reach their ears.
"Alrighty Mister Executioner, what am I to do with you…?"
Muffled whimpers can be heard, as though McNair has an arm braced across his mouth to keep from making further noise.
"You're right, I'm sorry. I've already got a pretty good idea. It was a rudely rhetorical question."
The sound of metal being unsheathed reaches McGonagall's ears. A whistle through the alley air precedes a brief, agonized shout of surprise. All goes silent.
Minerva strains to listen in the pitch dark. "Did you pass out?" Finnie's mumbles to the silent Death Eater. The girl has kept her eyes closed as promised.
We hear Finnie spit, presumably on McNair. "Pussy," she hisses with hate.
Finnie's combat boots stomp over to where Nott Sr. lay dead. Another whistling swing of a blade is followed by the sickening thud of it meeting its mark. Without hesitating, Finnie walks farther away, to the alley entrance – the place to which they had originally apparated. She presumably arrives at the young Death Eater's body; another swing and a thud is heard.
A few seconds pass and suddenly a plastic bag is snapped open. Minerva strains to listen over the sound of her blood pounding in her ears as Finnie fills the bag. The plastic stops making noise as she lifts it off the ground.
She finally speaks again, "You can turn around. It's time to go."
Like a fuzzy oil painting ripening into a clear picture, the scene once again materializes. Sure enough, Finnie stands with a black plastic bag filled with something undoubtedly macabre. She's securing a wickedly long, goblin-made blade back into her thigh holster.
After only a brief hesitation, the child steps away from the wall in order to shuffle in Finnie's direction. The masked woman does not rush her, but waits at the entrance of the alley patiently.
Once the girl is an arm-length away, Finnie inclines her head, indicating she should lead the way out of the alley. She angles herself to follow the grimy little thing and casually chirps over her shoulder, "If the blood loss doesn't kill you, McNair, I sure hope you live long enough to give someone a decent version of events."
McGonagall glances back at the three strewn bodies, and sure enough McNair is still breathing, though barely. Finnie has managed to cleanly slice off each of their left arms – the one branded with the Mark – from just above the elbow. A quick glance at her retreating figure has Minerva squinting suspiciously at the plastic bag.
Macabre indeed.
Moody and Dumbledore make to follow the two girls, Dumbledore eyeing McGonagall warily as she reluctantly trails behind. He gives the old witch a small, encouraging smile, but fiddles anxiously with the end of his beard. He likely hopes, as she does, that this adventure is close to over.
"There's a little blood on that jacket, sorry about that," Finnie mumbles to the girl as they walk along the completely deserted riverfront. The girl just shrugs. The plastic bag in the woman's gloved grasp bounces sickeningly.
Quietly, they approach a telephone box which is alight beneath a lamppost. Surreptitiously, Finnie continues to glance around for signs of life, but somehow no one emerges.
Once at the entrance to the booth, Finnie sets the bag down and opens the door. She leans inside and dials 9-9-9.
"Yes, hello," she mutters, lowering her voice unnecessarily. "There's a youth standing along the Thames, right next to-," Finnie narrows her inky eyes at the closest address, rattling it off but forgetting to do the voice. "She looks mega fucked up. Needs an escort to the hospital. I'd help but I'm a jackass. Please hurry." She promptly hangs up the phone.
Squeezing back out the folding door, she leans against the side of the box. A moment of silence passes, her bottomless eyes gazing down at the cloak-enveloped figure. "Sorry about that," she finally mutters, "You don't really look that fucked-up. All things considering." The girl just shrugs again.
Keeping her wide eyes glued to Finnie, the dark-haired waif points a small, quivering finger to the black plastic bag sitting on the ground, as though in question.
"It's their arms," Finnie explains without hesitation, much to Minerva's horror. "I'm gonna find that one's house, maybe he's got a new wife or a maid or something, and I'm gonna drop their arms down his chimney."
Good Godric, what?
Muffled chuckles are once again being quietly emitted from Alastor's direction. McGonagall refuses to turn to look, her arms resolutely crossed at her chest.
Silence descends once more as the two muggles wait quietly for London's finest to arrive. After no more than a minute, having been fidgeting the whole while, Finnie reaches into the buttoned pocket of her leather jacket.
She emerges with her futuristic music player. Ignoring the child's curious stare, Finnie turns it on with a click, pushing buttons on the bright screen until music begins playing from the invisible speakers.
Shoving it back in her pocket as opening electric guitar chords start to thrum, the masked woman asks, "So, what's your name?"
The girl's long, dark hair sways around her waist as she snaps her eyes back up to Finnie's mask. Instead of answering, she simply wrinkles her nose.
Finnie nods her hooded head understandingly. "I get it," she mumbles, "I've got a weird name too."
A heartbeat passes, and the chorus of the song playing from the muggle woman's pocket begs Roxanne to reconsider putting on the red light.
"This could be an opportunity, though," Finnie suddenly sounds intense, and the girl's hypnotic blue eyes return to her black ones. "After tonight-," sirens can be heard in the distance, fast approaching, "-you can choose to be anything you want. Be whoever you want." Finnie seems to be trying to convey something important. "Start fresh," she finishes on a whisper.
Quick as lightning, Finnie extends a gloved hand to lovingly cup the girl's haunted face once. Before anyone can react, she's snatched up the plastic bag, and darted across the street. The bobbies swing around the corner about a block away, but the agile shadow-woman is already gone.
The scene begins to melt as the memory ends, Minerva's last glimpse being that of the shrouded muggle child looking wistfully at the shadows. "Mulţumesc," the witch thinks she hears her croak, her poor unused voice weak, "Mulţumesc frumos."
McGonagall sways upon landing, once again standing beside Dumbledore's desk. She extends a hand to the tabletop to steady herself, her years weighing heavily on her. She glances up to Dumbledore and Moody through her spectacles.
Alastor looks pleased as punch. His weathered face is distorted with an uncharacteristic grin. Dumbledore, however, looks contemplative. She keeps her silence as she waits for him to emerge from his thoughts.
Once he does, beard in hand, he looks to her anxious face. A twinkle in his eye tells her all she needs to know of his opinion of these events. "Curious," he murmurs to her, unfocused, still a bit in his own mind.
"What's curious, Albus?" Minerva can barely contain her sarcasm.
"The child…" he mutters, a smile graces his features before he can help himself, "The child introduced herself to me as Roxanne."