Reuben Yaxley POV

Reuben stormed through the spacious Atrium at the Ministry of Magic, setting a determined pace. He felt considerably more limber that morning than he had in weeks, and his long legs carried him down the maze-like corridors quickly. Despite the relatively early hour, the building was already swarming with workers; it was unbelievable how living under the threat of immediate and painful death had cured the long-standing punctuality issues. The influx of people should have slowed his progress, but the mere sight of him caused the assembled masses to scatter, clearing a path wherever he went. His reputation was good for a lot of things, must of which he didn't particularly care for, but he had to admit, he enjoyed the panicked scattering.

Following his escape from Azkaban, Reuben had anticipated his Lord's order to infiltrate the Ministry, he was, first and foremost, an excellent strategist. The other skills he had developed and honed over the first war had come in use of course, but anyone, given enough time and practise, could learn to wield a knife like an extension of their own arm, the same could not be said of strategy. You could improve, but it required a natural talent, an intuition, to be the best.

Yaxley fundamentally believed that success in any plan came down to understanding the people involved, what motivated them, what their weaknesses were, that was where he excelled. His talent had emerged in childhood, though whether innate or cultivated Reuben could no longer be sure. He had been a reticent child, his personality dwarfed at the time by his gregarious younger brother, and many that met the two boys confused their ages, due to their respective manners. Reuben had willingly given his brother the spotlight; it had given him the opportunity to enjoy life on the sidelines and observe. His father, a man of the same disposition, would ask him to sit in on his meetings, no one protested, what harm was there in the child sitting in the corner reading? Yaxley learned from those instances how to judge, how to read the subtext of a conversation; who was honest, who was earnest, and all the tells people displayed when they were neither.

Reuben was only ten when Sebastian died. A tragic accident the newspapers had said, Reuben had found no comfort in those words, as the reality of the loss of his little brother tore his family apart. When he sat at the public wake, he forced himself not to feel, instead, he assessed, looking at the made up adults around him, and analysing the level of honest grief in the room under the surface, compared to the horrified grimaces painted onto the lacquered visages. That his parents were devastated was not up for debate, Yaxley would later discover that his mother would never truly recover from the loss, though the level of genuine remorse in the rest of those present was negligible. Even young as he was, he could not rebuke the occupants of the stuffy parlour too much. Sebastian had been the 'spare', a backup, his death was assigned the moniker 'unfortunate' but not devastating in the minds of those around him. Well, that was the words they used, what they felt was more likely something close to empathy, for the 'inconvenience'.

Maybe the loss of his brother and best friend had hardened him to life's experience, perhaps being the one to discover the body had set him on his current path, who could tell? Becoming an only son had meant no one to hide behind, Reuben had to force himself into society and 'play the game', though he would never have Sebastian's casual ease he twisted his natural demeanour to his advantage, using his silences and assessing gazes to create an imposing form. Letting hints of his developing sarcasm poke through the surface, making sure people walked away from conversing with him, questioning whether or not they had been insulted. After years of understanding the machinations of the older generation moving amongst his own had almost been too easy, they were all so green. When Reuben arrived Hogwarts a year later and was sorted into Slytherin House, though something of a foregone conclusion, he couldn't help the confident smile that stretched across his face, life among his own kind would be a cakewalk for him.

Yaxley had not been in the castle a full week before he discerned that he was one of the 'big fish' amongst his peers. They all wanted to befriend him. He was the pureblood scion of a house firmly entrenched within the first circle of the sacred twenty-eight families. Not that many of the assembled green ties were any different in background, but he knew the rules better than they did. They had all been packed off with trunks and a list from their parents of the right friends to make, the right hands to shake, and the ones to snub, the ones to avoid, the ones to cultivate. Reuben knew he was on those lists, whether to be secured as part of a network, or a potential marriage contract, it didn't matter, he had no interest.

Reuben had been sent off with no such list, having already earnt the respect of his father by the time he was eleven. The man trusted him to make his own decisions, and so Yaxley made some level of connection with everyone in his house, and out of it, where he chose. He raised an eyebrow at anyone that questioned him, he had listened to his father, 'Yaxley's make the rules', he was not bound by the strict guidelines the others had, he forged his own path. Unlike his peers Yaxley was aware that years later house affiliations wouldn't matter so much, business was business, and if he found a Ravenclaw that had good connections so be it. That he would be the only Slytherin they would deal in the future, all the better for him.

In his first year, Reuben went home for Yule presenting an eleven-year-old Antonin Dolohov, a pureblood scion from a prominent 'old money' Russian family, and a list of potentially potent intelligence he had gleaned from children discussing the personal lives of their parents in the common room. He had been summoned to his father's study a day later and given his first glass of firewhisky.

Over his years of schooling Antonin became his only true friend, Reuben respected few of his associates and liked even fewer, but he loved the stoic Russian, if not in the same way as he had Sebastian, just as deeply. After the passing of all of their parents his relationship with Dolohov, who had always been an only child, became the most important of his life. They relied on each other, and though, to the casual observer, it would seem as if their friendship was of few words, many of those that were uttered being snark, it ran so much deeper than that.

Which was why he was at the Ministry that morning, thudding down corridors, ready to carry out his task like an avenging angel. He hadn't planned on taking action this soon, typically preferring to wait and form a more watertight plan. But seeing how increasingly despondent Antonin had become, Reuben hoped news would help lift his spirits.

He may have given Antonin a lot of stick for his obsession with the little witch, but he was happy for him, really happy. Antonin had never really shown much interest in settling, much like himself. Though there had been a steady stream of willing witches for both of them, there had never been any that had stuck for any length of time. After graduating Hogwarts they were soon smack bang in the middle of a war, there hadn't been time to start thinking of marriage contracts.

Yaxley had always liked strong women, and in his youth there only seemed to be two types of witch that would have wanted to pursue marriage with someone in his position. The first kind would have stayed at home; quietly and contentedly, kissed his cheek when he got back from missions and washed his blood soaked clothes without comment; the other would have been right alongside him. Neither had been particularly appealing. Reuben had been raised by a tenacious woman, and despite playing the role of brainless society bride when it was required, behind closed doors his mother had been a complete firebrand. Reuben remembered an incident once when he had been about seven or eight, his father had come home pretty worse for wear, from both drink and a fight he had gotten into, leaving him in a sorry state. He had sat, undetected on the stairs; wide-eyed in disbelief as his mother tore verbal strips off his father before actually hexing him. Malleable and submissive she was not. As to the other kind, he had spent far too much time staring into the vaguely dead eyes of Rodolphus Lestrange to consider a wife who would have anywhere near Bella's level of unhinged attachment to their cause, or their leader. Yaxley knew he was a possessive bastard, and everyone could see Bella's heart, and probably most other parts of her anatomy, belonged to their Lord. Reuben didn't share, Dark Lord or no Dark Lord.

Antonin though seemed to have found his match. Reuben had seen some of their interaction at Grimmauld Place and thought that maybe if they all survived this, they might have a chance. She was young, younger than was probably wise, but Reuben realised he had underestimated her when she stood in the same hallway as him. She had honestly believed he had summoned the Dark Lord and yet she hadn't fled. She had been scared, of course, lack of fear would have indicated incredible stupidity, but she had stayed while unconsciously moving to stand in front of her stunned friends. If not ready to face the consequences, at least willing to throw herself in their path.

Reuben considered that up until that point she had just been a mission of a kind, a task that he had to complete, keeping her safe as Antonin requested. Somehow that day had made her real, and he had the unsettling feeling that it wouldn't be long before she warranted his protection on her own merit.

Had it not been such a time sensitive situation, stood in that grimy hallway, Reuben would have found his friend's behaviour excessively diverting. Antonin did, on occasion, have the tendency to treat a witch like spun glass, especially one he liked. He imagined the Russian had been pushing down his natural inclination to hide the girl somewhere safe since his infatuation began. Hermione didn't seem like the coddling kind, a wry smile crossed his face, this had the potential to be hilarious as their relationship developed.

When they left Azkaban Yaxley had been genuinely worried about his friend; some people were not built for long solitude and introspection, he was amazed Rabastan had survived it. Antonin and himself, as strong silent types, were slightly more prepared than most, and he had not expected to see the level of defeat he had in Antonin when they had first got out. Dolohov's performance in public was enough to fool the others, Antonin had never been an exuberant soul at any point in his life, to the rest it just looked as if the same reticent man that had come out again, albeit shabbier around the edges, but Reuben knew better.

Then, Antonin had seen Hermione's picture. His friend had tried to hide it and down played it as much as possible, but Reuben watched on in amazement as Antonin almost seemed to come back to himself. Dolohov would never admit it, but he changed that day. He began dragging himself through the post-Azkaban 'rehabilitation' with vigour; he was like the old Antonin, the one with a purpose, that purpose had been their cause, now it was survival. Yaxley honestly believed that if Dolohov hadn't had her as a focus, he might not have endured the second trip to the North Sea. Even if Reuben had hated Hermione when they had eventually met, he would have always been grateful to her, for the part she played in saving his friend, whether she did it unconsciously or not.

He should have been ready with wise council, and possibly more censure, for his picking of such a problematic girl, but Reuben's heart wasn't in it, Antonin wasn't the only one with doubts. Many, many discussions had been had late into the night, over the diminishing sanity of their Lord. His master kept Bella with him at all times now, her devotion the leash the Dark Lord used to keep the rabid dog she had become in place. Reuben would have been offended at the show of preference if the other two sidekicks weren't Lucius and Snape. The total of his Lord's best and brightest consisted of two sycophants, one mad, one incompetent, and a possible traitor.

They had met with the potential defector earlier that week; Snape was still keeping his cards close to his chest. Though the headmaster had delivered the package Hermione had supposedly requested, despite obvious reluctance in her choice of 'transit'. Snape had charmed the package so only Hermione could open it, the wily fucker. It was a smart move because Reuben knew he, at least, would have wanted to find out more. Antonin may have been willing to act on her word alone but he was not, it was nothing personal, this was about endurance. When they met again she would be explaining herself, though Reuben couldn't help feel a tiny smidgen of begrudging pride that she had held her ground at the last meeting. Even with both of them looming over her she had kept her chin up and her mouth firmly closed.

Antonin had not been impressed with the headmaster's actions, dealings between two parties where neither would expand upon their true loyalties were never going to run smoothly. If there was anything in that package that would hurt a curl on the little witch's head Reuben wouldn't hold Antonin back when he eviscerated the Potions Master, in fact, he had been cultivating a cover just in case; if came to that in the coming weeks.

Though he prodded Antonin for 'going soft' he hadn't changed, not really. He might have been more careful around her, trying as he was to head her wishes and earn her trust, but he wasn't likely to go sloping off to the Order, throwing himself at their feet and asking for redemption. No, the Russian was more minded to find some middle ground where they could all exist.

Despite a now shaky belief in the cause, and knowingly assisting one of the biggest targets aside at his core Reuben was unchanged. Years of undertaking vicious acts were not washed away because your viewpoint shifted. With or without the Dark Lord he would have always craved power, in all its forms, and power over those that had crossed him was the sweetest joy of all.

Which was why his task for the day filled him with an almost restless glee. Umbridge had been a pain in his arse since he'd started working at the Ministry. Trying to weasel her way into the top positions, sucking up and playing lip service until she had eventually been given the Muggle Born Registration Committee to shut her up. All of that had made her nothing more than a significant irritation. But then she had done something truly foolish, she had made an enemy of Hermione, and whether Antonin had asked him to or not, Reuben would have taken her out sooner rather than later. Antonin's decision had made that little witch family, and a threat to his family was not to be tolerated.

A final right turn and Yaxley arrived outside her office. It was deliberately ostentatious to do it during the day, let alone at nine o'clock in the morning, but that's what came of exploiting perceptions. People, he found, had preconceived ideas about when and where things should happen; dark deeds occurred at night-time in quiet, dingy locations. Reuben was certain no one in the bank of offices on either side would even think for a second that someone was being tortured down the corridor while they tucked into their morning coffee and pastries.

It saddened him greatly that he would have to muffle the room, an audience always heightened the sense of achievement, however, strong silencing spells would mean he wouldn't have to gag her, and that would make it worthwhile.

Deciding not to linger Reuben grasped the handle of her office door and let himself in without announcement or waiting for permission. He suppressed his urge to shudder at the repulsiveness of the interior, there was way too much pink, on the walls, and on all of the layers of frills, he would never have considered that colour could be so… oppressive.

The woman he sought was sat behind her stupidly grandiose desk, idly viewing paperwork while eating a croissant, her eyebrows furrowed in irritation at the intrusion before she looked up and saw who it was. "Oh," her face broke into a broad smile. "Hello Reuben, what can I do for you today?"

He tried to ignore her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Her affected, baby-like voice and condescending manner would typically rile him, but today his face split into a warm smile, he internally chuckled as he suspected she thought he was merely returning her welcome. Yaxley abruptly turned to close the door, throwing up thick layers of silencing spells once the office was sealed. He was confident that no one would care she was dead, but he didn't like to be interrupted while he was working.

"What is going on?" she asked officiously, steepling her fingers in front of her on the desk and squaring her shoulders into a position she probably thought made her look important.

Reuben smiled wider, she had made a fair attempt at sounding authoritative, but there was a small, shrill quality creeping in at the edges of her voice, betraying her uncertainty. He turned back around to face her and crossed his arms over his chest. He still hadn't uttered a word since entering the office; it was a tactic he employed often, weaker minds became uncomfortable quickly. Her face darted from him to the door several times before she practically jumped from her seat.

"Is it something for the Dark Lord? In that case, of course, I understand the need for complete secrecy. Is there something, in particular, he needs from me?" she asked with a fluttering laugh.

Yaxley fought down the bile in his throat at the very idea of anyone needing her in the breathy way he had suggested. He tilted his head to the side making it plain he was regarding her, assessing her. "Stand on your desk," he murmured.

She stilled. "I… I beg your pardon?" she stuttered indignantly.

"Stand. On. Your. Desk," Reuben repeated, elements of his colder, harsher, Death Eater persona coming through in his tone.

She watched him quietly and returned his stare, unblinking. He wasn't known for playing with his food; he wasn't a sadist, it wasn't the inflicting of pain he enjoyed, so much as the influence it gave him. But that didn't mean he was going to be in any way hurried. She was very much a special case.

One of the skills Reuben had developed in his years of service to the Dark Lord was torture for the purpose of information gathering. Specifically, where you pushed someone to the limits of their barriers and tolerances until they go half mad, at that point, when the mind gives out and they literally cannot stand any more pain, they will tell you anything ask, will do whatever you desire. Anyone could kill, but not everyone had the control, or the flair, to break someone in a useful way.

Reuben was determined to see the woman's true colours before she met her end. He had seen it in her, the darkness within, he saw it in the mirror enough, he knew what he was looking for. It was present in the briefest flash of her eyes or the tightening grip of her hand, all while she was maintaining her incredibly false air of almost schoolgirl-like, earnest goodness. Reuben imagined she believed herself to be giving a very close impression of a sophisticated, coiffured, pureblood lady.

She stood shakily from under her desk, "I don't understand."

He almost laughed at her response, though she questioned him she was already on her way to complying. Reuben didn't speak; he merely tilted his head towards the desk, his gesture plain. She looked at the floor and exhaled roughly. While she may have been a bitch she wasn't a total idiot, he was well aware of what she was capable of, but if Umbridge knew even half of who he was, she would know compliance was the only option.

She put her chubby, sweaty, little palms flat on the desk and falteringly moved one leg, putting the knee up onto the veneered dark wood surface. While she was distracted Reuben wordlessly disarmed her and she flinched as her wand flew from its holster on her wrist into his outstretched hand. He closed his eyes momentarily as he felt the room fill, with the waves of fear rolling off her. She raised her head to face him.

"Up," he said firmly, and the word resonated around the quiet of the room.

Her body was shaking with abandon now, though she still moved to acquiesce. With little grace she was finally standing up on the desk, then with a series of mechanical movements, she straightened herself out. Yaxley could see how she desperately tried to remain still, but her hands continued to move restlessly. He watched as she tugged on her skirt repeatedly, attempting to pull it past her knees, his brows lifted in response, she was in no danger of any attention there. He was a bastard, but he was no rapist, he valued women too highly for that, he would never force one. In fact, he planned to get through this without touching her at all if possible.

With a lazy wave of his hand, thick ropes appeared at her ankles, and with a twist of his fingers, they coiled around their intended target, growing tighter and tighter.

"What… I… what is the meaning-" she spluttered.

Reuben ignored her, too focused on his task. With another minute wave of his palm a long rope, thicker than the others, appeared, suspended securely from the ceiling. That particular spell he had learnt from an older boy in his house while still at Hogwarts, and he had employed its use many times, for much more agreeable reasons, with very willing partners.

Reuben drew his wand, and in a flash, the rope from the ceiling had attached itself to the bindings at the bottom of her short legs before it hoisted her upside down. Umbridge was screaming at him now, but he tuned the words out, it was time to being.

"I apologise Dolores for keeping you in suspense," he started silkily, "I will answer all of your questions now, but you will understand my prerogative. My mother taught me that there was an art to dispatching delicate communication, and how success could be influenced by the setting. Now that I have been able to create the perfect ambience… I will begin."

Her face had turned nearly purple with rage during his short speech, or maybe it was because she was upside down, either way, Reuben swallowed the bubble of laughter that was travelling up his throat.

"Yaxley… I command that you let me down this instant… why… when the Minister hears of this… I am a respected… possibly the most resp-"

"Dolores, Dolores, Dolores… you are smarter than this," he said lazily. "You do not seem to comprehend you are a Ministry employee, and even if you were respected, though I doubt it, I simply don't care about your threats."

Reuben moved languidly towards her, taking his time, enjoying the widening of her eyes and the stuttering pace of her breath. He aimed a cutting hex across the back of her hand and she screamed in pain, the sound plainly disproportionate to the discomfort she had experienced. He repeated the process again and again, until the back of her hand looked like a rudimentary chessboard. The cuts were only shallow, deep enough to draw blood, but not something more serious than a child would have obtained during rough play. When he took a pause her screams ended abruptly, she was breathing heavily now, Umbridge dragged her injured hand towards her face, and Reuben observed as her eyes widened before he could detect the precise moment she comprehended there was more to this than she had first suspected.

"Why?" she asked finally

"I'm so glad you asked, you see there is someone that has entered my sphere of protection, via someone I care about very much, and you hurt them, Dolores. Hurt them in a way that still marks their skin. You will understand as a former Slytherin yourself that we take care of our own, the age of the debt doesn't matter, acts made against us must be settled, and my friend was very, very upset to see something scarring her. Maybe we could have found a way to work this all out, but you don't see to be inclined to let this go. Whatever it is about the witch, she has got under your skin, and I'm afraid the only solution for that, is for me to get under yours."

Umbridge struggling stilled "Granger?" she spat the world clearly disgusted, "all this... for the Mudblood?"

Reuben aimed the next cutting hex at her wrist in condemnation, and she gasped as the incision sliced, Reuben observed the blood pour over her hand, the flow accelerated by her positioning.

"Do you know what exsanguination is Dolores?" he asked icily, moving around her to sit in her abandoned chair, kicking his legs up on the desk she was suspended above, before aiming a quick Repelling Charm at his boots. The elves would kill him if he dragged body fluids through the manor again.

"It is the process of blood loss to a degree sufficient to cause death. Of course, there are a lot of misconceptions," he continued conversationally, "mainly due to stupid ideas about Vampires. People seem to believe that you need to drain someone completely, but, depending on the age, health, and fitness level of the individual, people can die from losing half or, in some cases, even two-thirds of their blood." Reuben delighted in how pale she had suddenly gone.

"Why did I choose this method? I'm so glad you asked, you know in the Muggle world they sometimes use this for animals... it felt… appropriate."

"All of this for her? She's the animal," she seethed, "I cannot believe you would sully yourself and the ideals of your Lord for a quick fu-"

Reuben aimed a hex at her face, the force being similar to that of a hard back handed slap, though he was unlikely to lose his temper with her, it would have been unwise to let her finish that sentence, just in case.

"I wouldn't if I were you, Dolores, I already have this mapped out, I wouldn't want to have to change my plans to make it worse for you."

"She. Is. A. Mudblood. Whore," she protested definitively.

Reuben watched her unblinking before aiming the cutting hex again, this time at the other wrist and pushed the chair back to drink in her increasing panic, and tsked her. "The witch you are vilifying is the future wife of an ancient and respected family, you are lucky it is me here with you today, I may be motivated to keep you slightly longer now, but Antonin would have fitted a tap to your throat and bled you for days."

"Antonin… as in Antonin Dolohov?" Umbridge laughed. "You'll all die for this, do you understand? You have sacrificed your lives for that worthless bitch."

"Possibly," Reuben agreed with a shrug, "but you'll be dead first," and with that, he moved his wand and the next cutting hex found its mark against her throat. Not close enough to end her quickly but the resulting blood coupled with what she had already lost finished her off within minutes. She flailed madly, rage leaving her quickly as she fell into fear, clutching at her throat desperately while he sat listening to her screams reverberate off the office walls.

When it was done he checked his watch, 10.27 perfecting timing, three minutes until the next arrival.

It hadn't taken much to convince his Lord that Umbridge was a spy, in fact, it had taken worryingly little effort, especially considering she was probably the least likely spy in existence. Anyone could have seen that she was very much behind the cause, but Yaxley had exploited another of her character traits, she was as obvious in her quest for power as she was in her championing of blood purity. All it had taken was a word in Bella's ear and then the right word in Lucius'.

Malfoy was so desperate to curry favour that he would do anything if he thought it would get him back in his Lord's good graces. Including letting his son take the mark, and he had been willing to send Draco along behind him to collect Umbridge, or well, what was left of her. After letting 'slip' that Bella was looking to act, Lucius had been determined to get in there first. Reuben hadn't specified she would be dead but that was the point, he never had any intention of letting Malfoy Jr take this over, he had a much more specific goal in mind.

Right on time, there was a knock at the door; Reuben answered with a shout and a head of distinctive blond walked into the office.

Draco's face was fixed on Yaxley, "You wanted to see me?" he asked with an air of indifference, not quite honed enough to fool Reuben. He could tell that behind that swagger was a good deal of fear. He moved ever so slightly to the right, exposing his morning's handwork to the young recruit. He fought down the smirk at Malfoy's soft gasp and attempts to keep himself upright. Reuben waved his hand, and the ropes disappeared, Umbridge's body falling to the floor with a loud, wet thud.

"Take her body back to the Manor, I have an appointment with the Dark Lord," he commanded.

Draco made no response; his wide eyes were fixed on the form that had fallen, splayed into a pool of her now cold blood. "I didn't expect her to be dead," he uttered finally.

"Well she is, and if it's any consolation I think it was a surprise to her as well," he replied dryly before moving to the office door, hand on the handle he turned. "Draco she was a spy, and I was sent to interrogate her, but she had also made several mistakes that had led to her being on my bad side. I would like you to think about what may happen if you upset me… I'm very much watching you."

Draco may not have understood what particular infraction he had been referring to, but the threat was enough to ensure he paled. Once he was convinced his meaning was understood Reuben left the room, moving out into the still bustling corridor. After a visit to his Lord to show him the memories he has constructed he would go to see Antonin, the Russian had been growing more unhinged with every passing day without news of Hermione. Hopefully, this would provide him with some respite, one more week and they could see her. Reuben hoped they would be able to convince her to come with them, and if not, at least get some answers.