Chapter 3. A Dark Mystery
Excruciating pain searing through Harry's head jolted him into wakefulness. Wincing, he became aware of someone tying a strip of cloth to his left foot. Something hard was pressing against it. As he opened his eyes, hoping they were not watering as much as he thought, he noticed a familiar-looking bald head with bat-like ears and small malevolent eyes. It was Kreacher, Sirius' house elf, he realised. But what was he doing here? Come to think of it, where were they?
"It is good to see you have awakened, Master Potter," wheezed Kreacher with a low mocking bow. "Kreacher was most afraid that you would not." Then, in an audible whisper, he muttered darkly, "Kreacher has never seen any human sleep for so long! If Mistress knew of the laziness prevailing in this country, how angry she would be! How she would cry! She and Master worked so tirelessly to eradicate this sort of scum!" Not knowing what to say, Harry made to stand. His foot exploded with agony, combining with his smarting scar.
"Be careful, Master Potter," sneered Kreacher. "You may do yourself injury." Harry ignored him and stared around, wondering where he was. His vision was blurred, as his glasses were missing, but he could see green fabric around and above him. He must be in a tent, he realised. How had he ended up here?
Trying not to put too much weight on his injured foot, he made his way out into the cold morning air. He saw more green tents, black-robed figures darting among them. Were they fellow members of the Swift Brigade, he thought, hesitating. If they were, what were they doing here? He remembered the battle in Tewksbury High Street and being hit by a curse which had knocked him out. He must have been captured, he realised. The Swift Brigade and other soldiers fighting for the Ministry for Magic slept in red tents. This must be the Death Eaters' camp.
His scar gave a particularly painful twinge and his leg gave way. As he stumbled, half-blind with the pain, catching himself before he hit the ground, he realised with dread that Neville must be here too. He had to help him before the Death Eaters could subject him to the Cruciatus Curse, or worse.
"Stupefy!" Harry jumped aside just in time to avoid the jet of red light. He heard a man curse and another hiss testily, "Were you listening at all this morning? The Dark Lord ordered us not to use magic unless it was absolutely necessary! And where are his glasses? If I find you have hidden..." "I had to take precautions!" retorted the other. "These are young supporters of Fudge! They may attack at any moment!" The man who had spoken before snorted.
"Are you really saying you cannot handle a wandless teenager alone, Wormtail?" he scoffed. The other man blushed and said nothing. The one who wasn't Wormtail now turned his attention to Harry, who had been trying to edge away. "Don't even think about it!" he growled. "Your forces were defeated in the last battle. Your foolish Minister should have thought better of sending underage wizards to fight his cause. You should know that the Dark Lord does not take kindly to those who oppose the rights of his people. If you try to escape this camp, you will suffer pain beyond anything you have yet experienced. If you try to send information to our enemies, you will be handed over to the Dementors. If you attack anyone here, you will die horribly. Do I make myself clear?" Harry nodded, bracing himself for whatever this Death Eater might do next.
"It would seem, Master Crabbe, that you have also forgotten the Dark Lord's instructions," sneered Kreacher, darting his hand into Wormtail's pocket and pulling out Harry's glasses. "We must not stoop to the level of our enemies. That means we must not threaten his supporters if we can avoid it." Then, without another word, he led Harry back to the tent in which he had awoken before handing Harry's glasses back to him. "Thanks," murmured Harry, surprised at the elf's kindness. Kreacher nodded in acknowledgement, then said, "Do not try that again. Kreacher has heard of your encounters with Dementors and hopes that you will not have to face them yet."
Harry's blood ran cold. He would never forget his third year at Hogwarts, when the Ministry had ordered all entrances to the school to be guarded by Dementors and how every time he had encountered them, he would hear the pleading cries of his mother as she had tried to save him from being killed by Lord Voldemort. Surely there were no Dementors here? They were all in Azkaban, weren't they? Then he remembered Dumbledore's prediction that the Dementors would soon work for Lord Voldemort, he being better able to give them what they desired than the Ministry ever could. Had it already happened, he wondered with dread.
Putting this from his mind, he turned his attention to recent events. He had been taken as a prisoner of war by the Death Eaters, but Lord Voldemort had apparently ordered them not to use magic or threats when dealing with him. This didn't tally with Harry's past dealings with Voldemort and his supporters. Whenever he had previously encountered them, they had tried to kill him. Why was Voldemort now forbidding the Death Eaters to threaten or use magic against him?
Kreacher was here and seemed to be helping Harry. Again this was very different to his first impressions. When they had first met at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had been the hostile and unwilling servant of Sirius Black, but now he was here in this camp and was speaking comparatively civilly to him. Come to think of it, where was Sirius? Harry had not heard from him for months.
The sound of rustling, as though something with enormous wings were approaching, brought Harry back to the present. Kreacher ran to the tent flap and raised it to reveal none other than Lucius Malfoy. He was sitting in a brown chair with silver wings. He looked thinner and paler than Harry remembered. His grey eyes were bloodshot and there were dark shadows under them. His black robes appeared to be too large for his emaciated frame. He studied Harry critically for several moments, then returned his attention to Kreacher, who bowed so low that the end of his long nose touched the ground. "Bellatrix Lestrange is looking for you," he informed the house elf, who promptly hurried away without so much as a backward glance at Harry.
At last, he spoke, breaking the awkward silence. "I apologise most sincerely on behalf of my comrades, Crabbe and Wormtail, for the events of this morning," he murmured once the niceties had been awkwardly exchanged. Harry remained silent, not knowing what to say. It seemed strange,to say the least, to hear a Death Eater, let alone the father of his arch-enemy, apologising to him. Nevertheless, he kept his expression blank, wondering what the man would do next.
Kreacher raced through the Death Eaters' camp, pausing outside Voldemort's tent to pay his respects to the statue of Salazar Slytherin's mother. His heart was racing. Harry Potter, the boy Dumbledore had so carefully prepared to fulfil his plans, had been captured! The Death Eaters might win the war after all and then he could join his true lord and master, Voldemort. Sirius Black would not even notice. He was far too busy to notice a lowly house-elf like him.
A wave of sadness washed over him, but he pushed it away. It was not right that he should indulge in such a worthless emotion. He must concentrate on serving Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort, whilst doing whatever he could to ensure his master won the war. Right now, he must spread the word that Harry Potter had been captured. Ignoring his aching bones and shortage of breath, he ran on, shouting the message at the top of his wheezy voice.
Neville turned over, yawned and opened his eyes. Above him was green fabric. Where on earth was he, he wondered. A cold gust of wind made the material ripple. He shivered and realised he was in a tent. Closing his eyes once more, he strained his memory, trying to remember what had happened the previous night and work out how he had ended up here. After a long while, he sighed and gave up.
Beside him, someone sighed and shuffled their feet impatiently. Sitting up apprehensively, he let out an involuntary gasp of terror as the pale morning light illuminated the woman of his nightmares. She was exactly as his grandmother had described her; tall and slender with heavy-lidded eyes and long black hair which framed her waxen face. As he gazed into her disdainful eyes, he remembered his grandmother telling him about how this woman and her husband had tortured his parents and his blood ran cold. Now he was alone with Lord Voldemort's most faithful supporter, Bellatrix Lestrange.
"He lives!" she exclaimed, putting a hand to her heart in feigned relief. Then, her voice hard and cold, she hissed, "You have slept for long enough, Private. If you do not get up in ten seconds, you will suffer." Neville scrambled out of bed, quickly becoming entangled in the rough blankets as he struggled to stand quickly. As he did, he realised his wand was missing. He was defenceless.
"Where's Harry?" he asked, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. He remembered seeing a jet of violet light hit Harry in the gut and wondered with dread whether he had been captured as well or killed in action. It was unclear to him which was worse. But then, he reasoned, he wasn't Harry. Harry wouldn't think like that. He was brave and cared more about saving his friends than defending himself. How Neville wished he could be like him!
A slight smile crossed Bellatrix's face and she chuckled, making Neville shiver. "Starting early, are you?" she remarked. Neville stared at her in bewilderment, wondering what she meant by this, but not daring to ask. Yet, as he watched her toying with a loose thread in her robes, it occurred to him that she was waiting for something, expecting him to do something. But what? He watched her hands fearfully, trying to calculate the distance between them and her wand.
The silence stretched for an uncomfortably long time. Just as Neville gave himself up for lost, the tent flap was opened and in rushed a very excited old house-elf dressed in nothing but a loincloth. Its eyes were full of adoration as it gazed upon the witch towering over it. Bellatrix turned away from him and began addressing the elf.
"Kreacher, what news?" she asked. "I want the full report." "Yes, Mistress Bellatrix," wheezed the house elf. Bellatrix sighed. "Don't bother with the flattery," she told him shortly. "Just give me the report. I will be making an inspection later, by order of the Dark Lord, and if you have missed anything out of your account, he won't be impressed." "Yes, Mistress," replied the elf. "But how, if I may be so bold, will you be able to make an inspection while dealing with him?" He glared malevolently in Neville's direction.
Neville blushed and bit his lip. He was used to being told, in a great many ways, that he was not good at very much. He had come to accept it as his fate to be reprimanded, ridiculed and left out of things, but this was almost overwhelming. The only person who had ever thought highly of him, apart from Professor Sprout, had been taken from him, perhaps even from the world of the living. Nevertheless, he must not cry here, he told himself. That would only make him even more of a sitting target than he already was. He must face his fears.
Hearing Harry's name, he pricked up his ears. He had been captured, the house elf called Kreacher was telling Bellatrix. He was safe, but his foot was broken, due to an awkward fall resulting from a curse Goyle had thrown at him. Concern for his friend gnawed at his innards and he strained to remember what Hermione had taught him about the best way to heal a broken leg with magic.
"Thank you, Kreacher," intoned Bellatrix Lestrange, breaking Neville's train of thought. With a silent sigh, he opened his eyes just in time to see Kreacher exiting the tent. He caught a brief glimpse of the camp outside, a vast expanse of green dotted with moss-green tents, before the tent flap flopped back into place, plunging him back into the darkness of his childhood nightmare. He turned his attention back to the witch in whose presence he had awoken, dreading what would soon become of him.
"I suppose we had better start from the beginning," she began when the silence had, once again, become uncomfortable for them. "What do you mean?" stammered Neville, his mind filling with a thousand awful possibilities of what she might do to him now. He remembered his parents, driven to insanity by the torture she had subjected them to. Would he end up like them, he wondered fearfully.
Bellatrix Lestrange sighed. "Well," she began. "I suppose you know the reason you are here?" Neville hesitated. How should he answer that, he wondered. If he gave the response on his mind, the one he was sure she was expecting, she might become angry and decide to subject him to the Cruciatus curse. Besides, he could not be certain that she would tell him the truth. She was, after all, working for Lord Voldemort, his enemy.
Apparently she read his thoughts. "Speak your mind," she told him encouragingly. Neville hesitated, then, mustering all his courage, he said, "No." He may not have known her intentions, but one thing was perfectly clear to him. He must not let this Death Eater frighten him. Only by staying calm and focusing on what really mattered would he escape alive.
"You are here to learn," replied Bellatrix smoothly. "You will understand later." As Neville began anxiously wondering how safe his friend was in the clutches of Death Eaters, a scream and the sound of running footsteps was heard somewhere outside the tent. Bellatrix sighed and Disapparated, leaving Neville staring after her, bewildered and afraid. Who had been screaming, he wondered. The voice had belonged to a woman. He knew that much. But who could be here, in the Death Eaters' prisoner of war camp, as he assumed this must be, fleeing and crying out in such terror? Who or what were they running rom? Why had Bellatrix vanished upon hearing the scream? He wondered about these things and more as he sat in the tent, too afraid to try escaping, dreading the moment when he would have to face his enemies again.
Harry ran to keep up with Lucius Malfoy, amazed at the speed of his winged chair. As he panted for breath, he tried to concentrate on what the man was saying while taking in everything around him. The camp stretched as far as the eye could see and, according to Lucius, had two levels; the upper level, where they were now, and an underground level, where important meetings took place. The entire camp was set up on a hill. The Death Eaters resided on the high ground, "where constant vigilance is possible," Malfoy informed him. "I am sure you, of all people, understand that." At these words, Harry was strongly reminded of last year, when Defence Against the Dark Arts classes had been taught by Barty Crouch's son, who had been posing as the renowned Auror Mad-Eye Moody. Moody himself had retired from the Ministry for Magic when he had become too paranoid by their reckoning and the imposter who had taken his new position as a teacher at Hogwarts had spent the better part of six months telling Harry to watch out for attackers with the shouted words "Constant vigilance!"
At the entrance to each tent was a gigantic statue of a green snake. Why was that, wondered Harry, but decided not to ask. Right now, he thought, it was best to concentrate on learning his way around. If he was ever going to stand a chance of escaping, he'd better know the level of security surrounding the place. Where was his wand, he thought, trying to keep calm. He would not be able to resist the Death Eaters without his wand, especially if Voldemort was here, which, Harry reminded himself, he probably was. But if he was here, where would he be? Were there really Dementors here? Harry hoped not. Voldemort was a dangerous enemy and it was very risky, not to mention difficult, to fight a Dementor. The thought of both being in the same place, was terrifying. The possibility of their forming an alliance was too awful to imagine.
"All right up there, Edward?" called a familiar voice. Harry jumped, jolted out of his thoughts by the voice of the man standing before them. "Well enough, thank you, Wallace," replied Malfoy, tapping his chair with his wand and causing it to descend, so that his eyes were level with the man's. Harry felt his muscles tense as he recognised Macnair, the man who had tried to kill Buckbeak, a Hippogriff now living in the care of Sirius Black at Grimmauld Place. He remembered seeing this man in his third year, his tall, strapping figure making Harry suddenly aware of how thin and weak Lucius Malfoy looked. The thin moustache he had sported when Harry had last seen him had thickened and developed into a full black beard. The change made him almost unrecognisable, but suited him a lot better, in Harry's opinion.
At that moment, Macnair noticed Harry. "Ah, I see you've taken on the job of educating the young fudge fleas," he remarked. Lucius Malfoy frowned at him. "Wallace," he rebuked him. "How many times must I tell you? We must not use that term any longer! It is disrespectful and contrary to the Dark Lord's plans!" As Macnair apologised, Harry's mind filled with questions. What was Lord Voldemort planning? Why were the Death Eaters not threatening and insulting him and his comrades, as they usually did? Could it have something to do with the war, he wondered as he followed Malfoy through the camp, noticing how simple the Death Eaters' living quarters were. He remembered from past meetings that Malfoy was very wealthy and was sure at least some of the Death Eaters were too. Why were they living in such basic accommodation? One way or another, he told himself, he would find out and use the information he gleaned to bring an end to the war.