Chapter 17: A Spy, A Discovery

Angel

"We've been trying to splice chameleon DNA with the subjects and give them the ability to change their skin color to blend in to their environment. That is, if we can get them working. We've been experiencing trouble with the compatibility, though."

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, running a hand through my hair.

"They keep dying," Doctor Striker says, without a hint of emotion or empathy. "But that's alright, we have plenty more test subjects ready and waiting. Think they're going to a special school for the gifted.

"Students, then. How old?"

"Between the ages of twelve and eighteen."

"Infants might be more effective, though, don't you think?"

"When the formula is perfected, we will. But it's much harder for us to get our hands on infants, we often have to pay a substantial amount."

Doctor Striker continues to show me around the interior of the School. Strange children with blue, scaly skin and, according to Striker, invisible gills. A half-cat, half-mouse creature that was slowly starving to death. A little girl, no older than five, shivering in the corner of a cage. Striker stops in front of this one, deeming it appropriate to give me a more in-depth explanation.

"We've been experimenting with a new chemical, one that freezes the core body temperature. It's not quite getting the results we hoped for, though. Too slow."

"You don't have to do this," a voice said quietly. I turn to see a man crouched in a cage, hands clenched around the bars, immeasurably old eyes watching Striker, judging her.

Striker pulls out a wand and cast a Crucio over her back without even looking. The man collapses to the cage floor, screaming out in agony. Striker holds the curse on him for a few minutes, then withdraws, leaving him curled up in a ball, gasping and shaking.

"No matter how many times I curse him, he just won't shut up," she says, sheathing the wand and leading me on to the next room. "Interesting subject though. Bi-cardial. Found him trying to break into The School."

I wonder why someone who wasn't a past subject would even dare, but my attention is quickly diverted when Striker leads me into a lab. Lying on the table is a completely disfigured teenager. His entire body is covered with scars and burns, his wings, for he was like me in that respect, were twisted and bent and broken, some sections completely bare of feathers. But the worst part was his eyes. Or rather, lack thereof. Empty, bloody eye sockets, staring at the ceiling. I have to hold back vomit.

"I wished to run tests to see how this subject would react to things with and without vision. Also, being unable to see works as a wonderful deterrent to escape. I'm considering trying it on the bi-cardial subject as well, he's tried to escape five times."

"How was the operation carried out?" I ask, hoping against hope that the woman would say something about antiseptic at the very least.

"Eye clamps and a knife. Simple, but very, very effective. Last time we tried a more sophisticated means the subject, as you know, was healed by magic."

That'd be Iggy, I think, before something occurs to me.

"So the first...subject," I say haltingly, hating myself for using that word, "was the vision destruction on purpose?"

"Of course it was," Striker says. "Whatever gave you any other idea? The subject had tried to escape earlier in the day. We were teaching it a lesson."

"H-It said that it was an attempt to improve it's night vision."

"We never told it the reason of the operation. It probably just wanted to find a justification for why it was in pain. We noticed that the subjects tend to do that. Well, the ones who can think, that is."

I nod. "Can this subject? Think, I mean."

"Sometimes."

"Meaning?"

Striker threads her long fingers together. "We need to learn all we can from this subject. It has very unique abilities, abilities that would benefit the entire human race if we could figure out what they are. We're also detecting a foreign presence in it's head, and are trying to extract it to see if it has anything to do with those abilities. And so, we get as much tests as we can in before the day ends. As you are well aware, these tests are quite painful," Don't I know it, I think, "and so this particular subject's sanity does not usually survive to the end of the day."

I swallow. "The end of the day? Meaning you return its sanity? How?" Striker pulls out what looks like an elaborate helmet.

"With this. Returns sanity with the push of a button. It took us years of research, and a fair but of magic, to figure it out, but we got there."

"Can it remember previous days of testing when you activate the device?"

"Oh yes. Here, allow me to demonstrate."

Striker places the straps the device to the poor soul's head, then flicks the on switch. It tenses. And then his entire face twists into an expression that can only be described as horror. He whimpers in fright, too shaken up to even scream, knowing full well what's to come. I hone in on his thoughts, wondering if I can get anything useful, if I can comfort him even.

It's so dark. For some reason, his mental voice sounds familiar. I'm so cold and oh God, she's going to take my sanity away again. Help me, help me, someone, anyone, help me.

It's alright, I think-say, trying to sooth him. I'm going to help you.

Angel? His thoughts are incredulous, but incredibly, incredibly relived. Is that you?

How do you know me? I ask. Who are you? Have we met?

It's me! He cries out. Me! Am I so scarred you can't recognize me anymore?

And I suddenly realize where I've heard him before.

Harry? I think-whisper. Is that really you?

Yes, it's me! She faked it all, I wasn't dead, she dug me up, and-and brought me here and...and now I can't see and I'm in pain everyday Angel, so much pain.

My heart breaks. Three months he's been here. Three months, and how terrible those three months must have been. Loosing his sanity over and over, then having it restored the next day, just in time to know what's coming.

"There we go!" Striker says cheerfully, holding up a blood-colored potion. "Just finished this now. Should set your very blood on fire if I did it correctly. Or, well..." she shrugs "you might just die. Probably won't, but you can hope. Pray, if you like." She forces his mouth open. "Bottoms up!"

I turn away as the screaming starts. Even if I can still hear his frenzied thoughts in my head, somehow, not seeing his face makes it a little more bearable.

Hermione

I finish setting up the highly sophisticated equipment in the Room of Requirement. A perfect blend of magic and technology, which would allow us to communicate with Angel.

It had been her who had come up with the idea of acting like she was on The School's side. We had protested, naturally, all volunteering to go in her place, but Angel had insisted, saying that, since she could read minds, she was by far the best spy.

We had begrudgingly agreed, and one month of planning and acting classes later, here we were. Thank Merlin Dobby managed to find us this place, otherwise we wouldn't have had a suitable place, or suitable equipment by any means.

I flip a switch, turning on the large screen that Angel would appear on. Ron jumps, not used to this. I would have snickered, were the entire situation not so serious.

Angel moves into view, glancing surreptitiously left and right, before kneeling down, speaking into her (much smaller) screen.

"Hi everyone," she says, shaking quite violently. Something must've happened, something horrible. Maybe something she was forced to witness?

"Are you okay, Angel?" Max asks, moving towards the screen, concern written all over her face.

"I'm fine," she says, "but..." she pauses, seemingly trying to find the right words. "...one of the subjects here..."

"Yeah? What is it sweetie?"

"It's...it's your...I don't know how to say this...oh forget it! You might want to sit down for this, you especially Hermione, Ron." We take her advice and I lean forward, nervous anticipation crawling through my gut as I wait for whatever information she has.

"Harry's here."

What? I can't have heard that correctly.

"W-what?" Ron stammers.

It's then, through my dazed stupor of conflicting emotions, that I notice that Angel is crying.

"B-but...oh God, what they're doing to h-him, it's h-horrible."

"What do you mean?" I ask, dread coiling in my stomach. "What've they done to him?"

"I-I couldn't even recognize him," Angel says softly, numb shock written all over her face as tears stream down her face. "Not until I heard his thoughts, at least. He's in so much pain. Every day this woman this...this Doctor Striker woman she...she tortures him into insanity. Restores it every morning with this machine thing. But in between he's so alone, and confused, and terrified and...and I..." she breaks down. "I can't do this anymore! I know it's only been a day...but I just had to stand there and try to comfort him as he l-lost his mind and I-I just can't do it."

I'm shaking as much as she is by the end of her story, with a combination of anger, horror, and complete and utter sadness. My best friend, the one I loved, the first person my age who had actually been nice to me, had been tortured for three months...three months...and I didn't even know it. I thought he was dead, and in some twisted way, I know that it would have been better if he was.

Despite wanting to know no more, I can tell she's holding back, something important. And I have to know, I need to know what Harry is going through.

"What else?" I ask. "I know there's something else." I realize then how cold my voice sounds. "What aren't you telling us?"

Angel takes a shaky breath. "Striker, she...she..."

"She did what, Angel? What did she do to him?"

"She...she cut his eyes out."

I start crying. The numbness that held me earlier stopped the break down but this...this was just one thing too many. On top of everything else, Harry was blind. Harry. Sweet, kind, innocent Harry. What had he done to deserve this? Absolutely nothing.

"No." It was Ron, completely horrified at what Angel had said. "No, she can't have. There's no way she could have."

"I-I'm sorry Ron. But s-she did."

He clenches his fists, then lashes out, punching the wall. "DAMNIT, WHY HIM?! HE'S ALREADY GONE THROUGH SO MUCH, WHY THIS TOO?!"

I look over at The Flock through teary eyes. Iggy is shaking, staring at the floor before him numbly. Max is hugging him, staring at Angel with tears in her eyes. Nudge has her arms wrapped around herself. Gazzy has snuck over again from Grimmauld Place, and is sitting on the floor, trying to stay stoic. But his bottom lip is trembling, and I can tell he's about to burst into tears. When Nudge pulls him into a hug he allows himself to do so, crying all over her robes.

I turn to Ron, who's shaking with rage and sorrow after his outburst, and I gently take his arm and lead him back over to the couch.

"What do we do?" I ask softly. "We have to get him out of there, and soon. As soon as possible. Forget the long-term plan, I want to get him out of there as soon as possible."

"In that case," Max whispers, "we're going to have to seek help from the people we never seek help from."

"And that would be...?"

She sighs. "Adults."

A/N: This story is a year old now, with 17,983 hits and 160 reviews. Thank you to everyone, and see you next time!

-Winged Quill