Chapter Six: Cornered

TW: Mention of death (off-screen in reference to Death Eaters),

She's alone. The silence is broken only by the sound of her own breath. No clocks, no idle ticking and no chatter. Just her and the doors.

The doors stare her down like she's prey. They're mocking her, unmarked and unnumbered. She continues to count them as if they're immobile and motionless—as though it's significant and she'll find the right door.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six…

Pansy had stood before that exact door less than thirty seconds ago; she knows the man on the other side and has been attempting to liberate him from his confinement.

Seven…

She finds herself in front of the seventh door, or what she believes to be the seventh door. Praying they don't move when she reaches for the knob, the handle is still warm from Pansy's frantic hands twisting on the metal.

It clicks open and she is once again met with the time room. Its glittering light is sickening. Annoyance seeps into her limbs and she has to take a step back into the antechamber.

The room is playing tricks on her.

To the right, she repeats the process and is met with resistance. The door handle appears to be stick, resisting her efforts no matter how firmly she turns it, yet a distinct sensation washes over her—a warmth. Instinctively, her gut assures her that this is indeed the correct door.

Surely, the Ministry wouldn't rely on a mere locking charm for a door guarding a potentially dangerous prisoner, would they? And does she even possess knowledge of this individual's threat level? Is it a prisoner in that room, or are they being held hostage? It must be someone familiar to Pansy…

Her thoughts spiral uncontrollably, her concern extending to a stranger unjustly confined against their will. It takes her a moment to compose herself, to rifle through the unlocking spells she knows and to settle on one of them. Since the war, recalling information felt like sifting through sand in her mind.

She tries something simple first and to her great surprise, it works. The door opens with a hollow creek and as she pushes it, she's met with the familiar sight of complete emptiness.

Breaking the threshold, she looks around. No window, no bed and no sign of life. Nothing. She takes another step and something hits her foot. It feels solid, akin to a piece of furniture, yet there's nothing present. Hermione focuses on the spot, looking for a disillusionment charm of some sort.

"Lumos." The tip of her wand glows, the light engulfing the room and she can see the faint outlines of furniture. The shadows play across the floor, dark and inky black on stone. A bed, a desk and a bookshelf.

A spell seems to be at work within this room...

This memory comes easier than the locking charm. Faint and from a distance she can still hear Professor Flitwick's voice and Neville asking about concealing things such as items of value.

'Ah yes, Mr. Longbottom, there is such a spell that can make entire rooms look empty. Many witches and wizards use this spell for their summer homes or cottages. It allows them to look empty and abandoned when in actuality they're filled with things.'

"It's a concealment charm…" From a corner, there emanates a noise—a subtle shuffling—as one of the shadows glides along the floor. Hermione, taken aback, accidentally drops her wand and steps away. Even from the ground, her wand continues to emit its white light and the shadow is stirring to its full height. She realises that this may be the prisoner.

It takes her a moment to collect her wits and pick up her wand, clutching it tightly.

"Finite Incantatem!" Her wand dims before going out, the light from the antechamber pouring in through the open door. Nothing is revealed, but she can feel the person coming closer.

"Get…Out…" A chill shoots down her spine as the disembodied voice echoes. Raspy from disuse, she can't pinpoint the person's voice. Who are you?

"Celare Revelare!" She takes a step back, wand sweeping over the room, a bright blue jet bursting from the tip, blanketing the room in what seems to be water. She's never tried this spell before, never thought that she would ever need it. The haze clears and reveals the contents of the room.

The only illumination left filters in from the oil lamps of the antechamber. A wedge of soft light barely making it to the corners of the room. The bed has a tattered set of linens on it, the bookshelf practically bare and the desk has no chair. Everything is old, dilapidated and looks as if it will crumble under her touch.

At the foot of the bed, the prisoner begins to rise, his lithe figure draped in an ill-fitting black cloak. Bent forward—shielding his face from view—Hermione focuses on his white-knuckled hands and the way he clutches his hood. His movements are pained, awkward and shaky as he turns to face the wall, hesitant to reveal himself.

She's trembling—fingertips pulsating as she approaches—worried that he might suddenly pivot and lash out at her.

Her eyes sweep the room once more. He doesn't seem to have a wand or any form of weapon closeby. This should be the same man she saw with the Auror. This has to be the same person.

Keeping her wand up, ready to cast a binding spell in case he makes any sudden movements. Approaching slowly, she reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder. Before her fingers can meet the fabric, he turns to face her—pale eyes holding fire.

A mask obscures most of his face, but she can see his mouth trained in a pain-filled frown.

"If you come with me, I can help you." She breaks the tension.

"NO, NO YOU CAN'T!" His sudden yelling causes her to take a step back and her mouth to fall open, she flinches, closing her eyes for the briefest second before catching herself. She cannot cower before this masked man.

Unsure of what to do, unsure of what to say, she tries to reach forward once more, but he recoils. He curls tightly around his body and presses himself as close to the wall as he can manage.

"Please, just come with me, I can he—"

"NO!" he shouts and repeats it over and over like some broken record. "NO…No.. Please, no…"

This was a terrible idea…to come alone and without a plan.

If she hadn't followed Pansy, if she hadn't run after her, perhaps Pansy would have been able to help him. Perhaps Pansy could have coaxed him out into the hall and into the light.

She bites her lip, eyes sweeping over the room once more.

A few books on the bookshelves, a radio that doesn't look like it works very well, an inkwell and scraps of parchment on the desk. No identifying features. No photos, no letters or posters, even the books hold no personality.

He quiets, his voice hoarse like he isn't used to talking even though he'd been repeating the same words over and over again. She takes several steps back whispering the disenchantment, closing the door and taking the light with her, shrouding him back into the darkness.

"I'm coming back for you. I will help you."

She recasts the locking charm, hearing it click into place before heading back up to the atrium.

Hermione goes home, and for a moment, tries to pretend like everything is normal. She eats dinner and watches television with Crookshanks. She tries not to think about the man in the room, the sound of his hoarse voice as it bounced off the walls of the enclosed chamber. She doesn't think about his pale eyes when she first saw him with the Auror or when his his white-knuckled fists gripped the cloak's hood when she found him alone in the room.

The mask on his face, resembling a skull crafted from bone, doesn't escape her notice. She is certain that it is a Death Eater mask. It takes a moment for her to connect the dots, to recall where she had encountered such a mask before. It's been six years since she last saw one like it.

It was the summer before her fourth year. The Death Eaters had infiltrated the Quidditch World Cup, and even then she had only caught glimpses of them. Malfoy, of all people, had given them a warning, had told Hermione to hide in his own way. Her heart flutters slightly at the memory before her train of thought resumes. T

The man in the room has to be a Death Eater. But why is there a Death Eater in the Ministry's basement?

They were all sent to Azkaban…

Crookshanks lets out a quick meow, pulling her from her thoughts. He's pawing at her hand that's clenched into a fist on her lap, pushing his head under her fingers. She absentmindedly pets him, releasing a long sigh as she ponders. She struggles to quell her thoughts but eventually succumbs to the compulsion to figure out this puzzle.

Closing her eyes it's all she can see: pale eyes, light skin, broad shoulders, sharp jaw, dark stubble.

Could it be Amycus Carrow?

The last time she saw him, he was being lowered into the floor of the Wizengamot after being sentenced to life in Azkaban.

Professor Flitwick killed Dolohov. Yaxley is in prison. Greyback is as well, same as Crabbe and Goyle's fathers. Draco and Lucius Malfoy are both locked away. That leaves…

Her mouth goes dry.

Theodore Nott…

She huddles on the couch, prompting Crookshanks to leap off in disapproval before curling into a ball on the floor.

Theodore was never brought to trial. The evidence against him proved insufficient for a legal proceeding, and what little they did have turned out to be inconclusive.

It could be him. The thought that she was in the same room as Theodore—and left him—leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. They may not have been particularly close at Hogwarts, but the memories she had of him were few and far between. A partner project for professor Sinistra, passing remarks in the halls, a snarky comment after a Quidditch match, but nothing of substance.

Hermione can't help the sinking feeling that she has doomed him to a fate worse than Azkaban, one of isolation and torture. No one deserves that fate, not even a Death Eater.

That Friday, after work, she declines drinks with her colleagues She rarely goes to the pub with them so it isn't unusual behaviour, but Connor presses anyway.

Hermione doesn't want to tell him where she's going. She hasn't told anyone about what happened in the Department of Mysteries a few days ago. So, she makes up an excuse and says she has a trip planned this weekend with a few Muggle friends.

It's a lie and the second it leaves her mouth she doesn't feel any remorse for it. She doesn't have a trip planned, nor does she have any Muggle friends left since she fell off the face of the earth shortly before the war. Usually, lying makes her physically sick and consumes her, wracking her mind with guilt. Since she was a child, she had been unable to lie. Her parents used to poke fun at her for it.

Connor drops the subject, not really knowing how to respond. She hates how she's disappointed him, can see when his face falls, mouth forming a hard line. He gives her a small nod before he leaves her be.

She takes a moment, slowly collecting her belongings and waiting for everyone to leave the office. Opening her top drawer, she takes out the item that was left on her desk this morning. Wrapped in velvet cloth, she's careful not to touch it.

It's a signet ring, made of silver with a snake eating its own tail on the face. It could only be a family heirloom that belongs to a Slytherin; no other house would own something so overtly branded.

Pansy must have put the ring on my desk…it must be some kind of clue to whoever is down there. She's nervous about touching the ring, worried there's some sort of enchantment against Muggleborns. Purebloods and their bullshit, it's probably some childish jinx that will make my skin turn green…

"Ostendo," she whispers, tapping the ring with her wand tip. Hermione waits a moment, observing the object for any sign of sizzling, sparking or heat.

With no enchantments or curses, she deems it safe and picks it up, bringing it closer for further inspection. Inside the band there's a small inscription, barely legible.

Till Death.

A promise? To someone, to their house, to their ideals? Perhaps an engagement ring. Til death do us part is a heavy promise to make. Perhaps a class ring, Slytherin til the end, once a snake always a snake. Or it could be a status symbol, amongst Pureblood families. A way of upholding their ideals.

Slipping it into her pocket to deal with later, she packs up her things and leaves the office.

The archive in the Ministry is quiet for a Friday night. She wasn't expecting there to be many people, but she had at least hoped for it to be a bit more lively. The librarian behind the desk looks surprised when she enters, not expecting any employees to spend their Friday evening in the archive.

"I'm looking for archival copies of The Prophet. Can I find them here?" Hermione asks and the witch nods, standing and leading her to the very back corner of the room. A microfilm machine sits on a long table with an entire wall filled with tapes.

"All of the newspapers send us their film strips on Sundays. The newspapers for the third week of June will be available next week if you need the most recent copy. For now, we have everything up until the second week of June on this shelf right here." She waves her wand and the machine springs to life, a dull whirring noise coming from within. "Were you looking for a specific date?" The woman peers at her through her glasses that are perched at the end of her nose, her green eyes magnified through the glass.

"No, I'm just looking to browse the society sections from the last few months." Her face lights up and she disappears into a stack, returning with a few tins of what looks like old movie reels.

"Let me set you up with these and if you need any more, you know where to find me."

Popping open the tins, she feeds them into the machine and on the screen Hermione sees the front page of The Daily Prophet from a few weeks ago. The image of Kingsley above the fold makes him look older than he is, the way he carries himself a little more stiff than his usual mannerisms.

Kingsley To Lead Wizarding World Through Post-War Renaissance.

The clerk disappears and she settles into the seat, flipping through the older issues looking for any story she can find on Theodore Nott.

Greengrass Family To Host Tea Social For Muggleborn Students…Britain's Own Black Widow To Wed American Distillery Tycoon…Disgraced Death Eaters Looking To Re-Enter Society…First Visitation For Incarcerated Death Eaters Goes Off Without a Hitch…

Hermione sees the following:

Pictures of Astoria and Daphne in their lavish garden sipping tea from pretty cups.

An image of Blaise's mother on the arm of an older man.

A woman Hermione has never seen before in a luxurious-looking dress covering her face while stepping into a shop.

Narcissa Malfoy exiting Azkaban with a blank expression on her face. Her usually razor sharp eyes are dull; her blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her hands are clutched tightly at her sides and Hermione has to check to make sure she read the headline right. Mrs. Malfoy doesn't look like the visitation went smoothly…

And yet? No Pansy. No Theodore. No clues.

Hermione zooms in on Daphne and Astoria's hands, trying to see if perhaps one of them was wearing the ring she now has in her pocket. She tries the image of Blaise's mother, and again with the woman she doesn't recognise.

It could be Pansy's heirloom ring…Perhaps Theodore gave it to her and she's trying to help me make the connection. But why be so vague about it? Why run away? Why not confront me and ask for help?

Her chair becomes uncomfortable after a few hours of pouring over all of the microfilm she can get her hands on. The sound of the whirring machine fades into the background. The librarian approaches her, saying she's leaving and that the door to the archive will lock itself once the last person exits.

Hermione flips through more images and more stories of socialites and parties, but still sees no mention of Theodore. She's gone all the way back to last spring, when the Death Eater cases were being tried.

She lands on the date of May 8th, 1999.

Finally, Hermione comes across an image of Astoria, Pansy and Theodore stumbling out of a restaurant in Diagon Alley. The three are clustered together, surprised at the paparazzi's sudden interference on their night. Hermione scans their hands for a sign of the ring. She watches them over and over again on an endless loop, stepping from the curb to the pavement.

Pansy is in a scandalous metallic dress that catches the flashes from the cameras just right. Astoria is midway through applying her lipstick in a gold monogrammed compact when she blinks, her pretty features pulling into a grimace at the flash. Theodore is fixing his collar, tucking it back down casually, his pale eyes staring down the barrel of the camera, cocky grin painting his full lips.

No ring in sight, but at least I have a timeline.

The last time Theodore was photographed was just after Draco Malfoy—the last Death Eater to stand trial—was sent to Azkaban.

It all makes sense now; the man in the basement has to be Theodore Nott, and Pansy needs help to get him out.