cclxxxvii. row ninety-seven
The Death Eaters made quick work of leaving Hogwarts once they had what they'd come for.
Accipto went to grab Rowle and Rodulphus, and they rejoined their group as Dolohov and Bellatrix marched them down to the fifth floor at an exacting pace. Dolohov half carried Carrow, who'd been revived but needed treatment for his concussion. He kept cursing at Hermione, who'd been forced to come along for "assurance."
"To make sure you're a good girl, Harriet," Bellatrix cackled.
Harriet refused to let them take her wand. "I'll go down fighting before I allow that," she rejected, steadfast despite how her voice shook. "And I'll take at least one of you with me. It's easier if I cooperate, innit? Are you willing to die or fail whatever your mission is?"
The Death Eaters obviously would have pressed the issue if they'd had more time, but for now, they relied on their numbers to cow Harriet into moving. That confidence when gathered in a greater group had to be their biggest failing. However, Harriet's heart fell a little more when Rowle and Rodulphus appeared with Accipto—followed by yet another Death Eater, a woman Dolohov addressed as "Alecto."
How many of them did I miss on the Atlas?
When they reached the fifth floor, they headed straight to the plain, boring corridor Harriet had seen Accipto in months before, and they opened the doors to a tall, black cabinet. Dolohov, Rowle, and Amycus Carrow went first, climbing into the cramped space and shutting the doors. Harriet and Hermione clamored in next at wandpoint.
"Harriet," Hermione whimpered seconds before the doors closed on them. "What do we do—?"
"Wait for an opportunity," Harriet told her. "Until then, stay close. They're in a hurry and don't have the time to make sport of us, but if we push them, they'll make the time."
The warmth and security of Hogwarts vanished in an instant—replaced by the dull, oily light oozing through the interior of a dark, moldering shop. Dolohov had the doors open an instant after they closed, and he ordered the girls out of the cabinet. He pointed his wand at Hermione's face.
"If you run here, you might escape," he told Harriet, his face still hidden behind the silver mask. "But the Mudblood will die."
Harriet clenched her jaw and said nothing.
Soon enough, the seven Death Eaters and Accipto Lestrange forced Harriet and Hermione through a narrow aisle and then out the store's front door. Given the time of night, even Knockturn Alley had a dearth of patrons stumbling through its dark, seedy warren, and once hurried onto Diagon, Harriet saw no one at all.
She didn't know if she wanted anyone to appear or not. Yelling for help would only get someone killed.
Harriet wrinkled her nose in confusion, wondering where the Death Eaters were going. Then, they entered Empiric Alley.
The Ministry.
The glass doors to the Ministry's entrance already stood open, waiting, and the Death Eaters slipped inside without fanfare. Rodulphus hung back for a moment, surveying the street outside, and Harriet heard him muttering wards beneath his mask.
What are they doing? Surely, there has to be someone here who'll notice—.
The Watchwizard station stood empty. Red dots flecked the counter.
Another Death Eater waited by the lifts, dressed in his black robes and silver mask, though Harriet noticed a large crack in its surface. He wore gloves, but she could still see something was amiss with his hand, the limb distorted in the leather casing.
"You brought one too many," the wizard grunted as their group piled into the lift, Bellatrix keeping a firm hand on Harriet's upper arm. Her nails felt like daggers where they dug into her skin. His mask dipped as he twisted in place to stare at the pair of young, frightened witches. "Why'd you bring the other?"
Dolohov grunted. "Insurance."
"Just get rid of her now."
Harriet stiffened, her fingers tightening around her wand, ready to blast the floor out from the lift and take them all down with her if they dared—.
"No," Dolohov snapped. "She's here to keep Potter in line."
The wizard scoffed into his mask. "I could keep Potter in line all right." He made a lewd gesture by grabbing the front of his trousers.
"If you want your grubby cock to stay attached to your body, Macnair, you'll keep quiet," Bellatrix tutted. She balanced her chin on Harriet's shoulder, and Harriet felt the ghost of her lips much too close to her ear. "The pretender has been training this one. My Lord says to be very, very careful." She laughed.
Harriet eased her arm closer to Hermione's, and they clasped hands between each other, where the Death Eaters couldn't see. Hermione trembled.
"Did you run into any trouble?" Dolohov asked the wizard—Macnair.
Macnair? Walden Macnair? Harriet stared down at her shoes, thinking. But he works at the Ministry. He's not a Death Eater. He's a—.
Guardian. A Guardian of the Magical Right.
The wizard made an aggrieved noise and lifted his injured arm. The hand wobbled on his wrist in a grotesque manner. "There's some nasty fecking curse work down there," he said. "We need to get this job done so I can get this shite looked at."
Pettigrew snickered.
The lift rocked as Macnair shifted his considerable weight, lunging toward Pettigrew. "What? You think that's funny, rat?" he snarled as Wormtail cowered. "That's what I thought, you sniveling heap of rubbish."
Hermione's hand slipped higher on Harriet's wrist, pressing on the silver bangle there. The bracelet had been there since Harriet's second year, a gift from Hermione. She thought of when she'd received in, sitting in the wilderness of Oxfordshire on her birthday, and she remembered how the sunlight had glimmered on the Charmed silver.
The comforting memory gave her the strength to step out of the lift when it arrived at the Atrium.
The massive hall much resembled how Harriet remembered it looking from her previous visits—aside from the lack of people. She knew it was very late, but surely there'd be someone around? Security, a late office worker? Somebody!
Bellatrix must have noticed her searching gaze because she leaned closer to Harriet, smiling. Her teeth were chipped, the gums pale and receding from poor conditions in prison. "Government holiday," she said. "Given by the Minister himself! Isn't Lord Gaunt generous, little Potter?"
Harriet didn't reply.
"Of course, there was the odd straggler we had to…deal with…."
As if on cue, they passed the far edge of the fountain, and Harriet spotted a wizard prone on the floor, glassy eyes staring into space. A collection of parchment lay scattered around him as if he'd dropped his work when the Death Eaters came upon him.
Macnair broke away from the group with a grunt and grabbed the dead wizard by the ankle. He dragged him toward one of the Atrium's dark corners.
Hermione's hand shook harder in Harriet's.
They continued on to the bank of lifts on the far side of the hall, boarding a familiar car that forced them to squeeze closer than before. As they started to descend, Harriet realized where they were going.
"The prophecies stored within the Halls may only be taken by those the prophecy refer to—."
Her back straightened.
"So, does Voldemort just lend you out whenever he feels like it?" Harriet asked aloud, startling the Death Eaters. "Is that part of the on-boarding process? 'Welcome to your life of eternal servitude, I may order you to follow the whims of my psycho alter-ego?'"
Bellatrix drove her nails into Harriet's arm. "You dare speak his name?!" she hissed.
"Well, he dares to speak mine. Fair game, innit?"
The lift continued, the atmosphere tense.
Lower and lower they fell, and Harriet kept thinking about the empty Atrium, the sheer boldness of having Death Eaters stroll through Diagon. It was—barmy, frankly. What in the fuck was Gaunt's end goal? He was being so—! So—.
"His efforts remain short-sighted and aggravating, and with the Dark Lord at his ear, he will only continue to spiral."
Slytherin had told Harriet that, and it made her reflect on what she knew about Gaunt, what she'd witnessed in the past few years. Setting the Diadem Horcrux loose in the castle had been a calculated move that couldn't be connected to Gaunt and had nearly removed both Slytherin and Dumbledore in one clean swoop. Kidnapping Harriet from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters had been methodical—a patient, well-thought-out trap that he must have started formulating the second he saw Terry Boot dead. Gaunt had been bold in his moves but still refined, still careful.
In contrast, hexing Harriet in front of the Wizengamot had not been refined or careful.
Ordering an attack on Hogsmeade had been risky—.
Sending Death Eaters and Guardians into Hogwarts to kidnap Harriet from her bed? Killing Ministry employees to clear the way? Letting them skip through Diagon? That was—.
"—and with the Dark Lord at his ear, he will only continue to spiral—."
Did something about the Dark Lord's presence cause his Horcruxes to…deteriorate? To lose rationality and composure?
Harriet furrowed her brow, thinking fast.
Above their heads, a cool voice said, "Level nine. The Department of Mysteries."
"Come along, Potter," Bellatrix ordered, hauling Harriet out of the narrow lift opening. Hermione stayed stuck to her side, and the Death Eaters didn't protest. They simply sneered, thinking they were getting their way.
Harriet remembered the long, cold passageway from her dreams, and it felt surreal to be there in person, marched down its length by a passel of masked lunatics. She expected to see the waiting door with its plain black paint and brass handle, but it was open—or, more accurately, blasted off its hinges.
Another wizard waited for them there, but he didn't wear long black robes or a mask. He looked like the average bloke you might find hanging around the Ministry—if decidedly more roughed up, his lip split and his shoulder hanging awkwardly.
"What took you? You do not have much time," the wizard said, a slight lisp to his words as if he'd injured his tongue. "My Lord is keeping the way open, but it will not be so for long—."
"Whatever, Runcorn," the woman named Alecto dismissed.
They crossed the threshold.
Harriet tripped when the strength of the magic inside fell upon her. She could tell it was leashed—pushed back, restrained—but its pressure leaned into her, and it took an effort to lift her head and study the black foyer. A hard shove from Bellatrix urged her and Hermione to start walking down the nearly invisible steps.
At the end of the long, winding staircase, they came upon the circular chamber Harriet had seen in her dreams. But, where the room was once lit by the soft, blue-hued nebula of sparkling stars, now it blazed blood-red with a series of runes hovering in the air. The Death Eaters went to great lengths not to touch them. Harriet dared hover a hand near one, and her fingers ached.
"They're holding back the wards," Hermione muttered. "The runes are acting like a dam, keeping back the magic that rests over this place."
Harriet's foot connected with something solid, and she looked down to see what she'd hit. A witch lay sprawled upon the floor, garbed in long, navy robes edged with silver. She didn't move. Another witch slumped against the wall, motionless.
Someone waited by the door on the far right. Someone terribly familiar.
Though he wore a silver, bone-white mask that covered part of his face, Harriet had no difficulty recognizing Gaunt. Her scar started to itch the moment he came into view, and she felt his presence like a malignant sore festering in the middle of her forehead. His head tipped in their direction, and he stepped over the body of a man twitching in his death throes.
"You were instructed to bring Potter," he said to the Death Eaters, eyes never leaving Harriet. Sweat dripped down her back from sheer anxiety. "And to keep casualties at a minimum. Why is the Mudblood here?"
"Leverage, Lord Gaunt," Dolohov answered.
There it is again, Harriet thought, eyes narrowing.
One thing she'd learned about the Death Eaters, Guardians of the Magical Right, and the Knights of Walpurgis, was how bloody particular they could be about addressing Voldemort—whether that was Slytherin, Gaunt, or Voldemort himself. Very, very rarely had she heard the Knights address Slytherin as anything other than "my Lord," circumstances surrounding them notwithstanding. At Hogwarts, appearances might force someone like Snape to call him "Professor," but in private? Harriet knew if Snape said anything other than "my Lord" or "my Lord Slytherin," he'd be in deep shite.
To have a Death Eater stand there and casually call him "Lord Gaunt," as if he were just another knobhead in the Wizengamot? Oh, Gaunt must be fuming, and if he was fuming, he felt disrespected. Slytherin always had to reassert himself if he felt disrespected; Harriet imagined Gaunt was much the same.
"How much does it cost to rent Death Eaters nowadays, anyway?" she asked, earning a small, shocked whimper from Hermione. "Do they charge hourly, like a whore? Or do you get a discount rate if you take the lot? Are you babysitting them—or are they babysitting you?"
"What are you doing?!" Hermione hissed. Harriet ignored her but tightened the grip on her hand. Don't let go, don't let go.
For an instant, Gaunt seemed too shocked to say anything—but the instant passed as quickly as it arrived, and he raised a hand toward Hermione—.
"Touch one hair on her head, and you'll never get the prophecy."
The Death Eaters stiffened. Gaunt's hand paused in midair, then lowered. "Ah, so Dumbledore's told you—for all the good it's done him. Don't mistake your situation, Miss Potter. You will be removing the prophecy whether you want to or not. The only difference is how much agony your cooperation might spare you."
Harriet swallowed and spoke in a rush. "I'll grab it for you if you let us leave unharmed."
Gaunt started to laugh, a sound echoed by the Death Eaters until he snarled at them to be silent.
"You want things to be done quiet and simple, yeah? So let's bargain."
"Bargain?" Gaunt's mouth twisted in a smug half-grin. "What makes you think I wish to bargain with you, little girl? What makes you think I wouldn't prefer watching you scream?"
Harriet ignored that last question. "Because it'd be nicer if all of this got swept under the rug, wouldn't it? A few witches and wizards don't show up for work in the morning—not a big deal. It brings less attention to your administration if I cooperate and make things easy, yeah? It'll save time, too. Your gaggle of rent-a-minions didn't do much damage at Hogwarts. Had a bit of a scuffle with McGonagall, but nothing I couldn't Obliviate out of her. If Hermione and I are tucked back into our beds by morning, everything will go on as planned. If we're not, well…."
Gaunt's eyes narrowed behind his mask, and when he spoke, his tone lacked mockery. "And why would you agree to this?"
"Because I'm a Slytherin." Harriet flattened a hand on her chest and reached deep inside herself for that forced, saccharine sweetness she'd used on the Dursleys when she got in trouble. It didn't always work, but sometimes it did. "Slytherins bargain for survival."
Gaunt seemed to consider her, stroking his chin in thought.
"She's lying," Bellatrix sneered, jabbing Harriet into the ribs with her wand. "The pretender has taught her how to lie. What a scheming, tricky brat."
Harriet's gaze cut toward her. "There's nothing tricky about wanting to survive in exchange for something I don't care about."
"Don't listen to her, Lord Gaunt—."
Red eyes blazed. "Be quiet!" Gaunt snapped. Harriet spied how his left hand balled into a fist at his side. "You do not tell me what to do. Do you think me easily deluded by a wretched teenager?"
The Death Eaters fell silent. Harriet held her breath as Gaunt considered her again—and she saw how his gaze ever so slightly flickered toward the runes he must have carved. Maybe it was her imagination. Harriet felt the runes buzzing, prickling against her exposed skin—but beyond them, foreign magic thundered and loomed. She wondered how much longer they had until the runes failed.
Harriet saw the moment Gaunt decided to humor her. Oh, she suffered from no illusions. She wasn't bloody stupid; she knew the moment he had the prophecy in his hand, both she and Hermione would be dead.
She had to ensure he didn't get that far.
He had nothing to gain from letting her walk away alive but everything to gain if she got the prophecy for him. She needed Gaunt to believe himself in control, to be self-assured enough to indulge in this game. Harriet knew, without reservation, he could kill Hermione and force Harriet to do whatever he wished, no matter her bluffing. She would do whatever it took to make him play along.
We're not dying here. Harriet's fingers tightened around Hermione's. I refuse to die here.
"Well, Miss Potter," Gaunt said. He swept into the slightest of bows, a derisive smile on his lips. "After you."
Grim, Harriet and Hermione started forward through the next door.
The runes made for a rudimentary path; they formed barriers on either side of the pair as they walked, straining to keep between the lines Gaunt had so crudely drawn. All the while, Harriet could feel the Death Eaters aiming their wands at their backs.
"I think the lines keep the wards from alerting the Unspeakables," Hermione murmured for Harriet's hearing only. "You were right; he doesn't want anyone to know he was here. Did you see his mask? It's quite a risk for him to be present."
"He's impatient," Harriet muttered back. "So is Voldemort. What happens if we step out the runes?"
"I don't know."
"Ah."
"Do you have a plan?"
Harriet shushed her, heart pounding.
They crossed through the wide chamber beyond the door. The Department was lit by somber blue lighting that emanated from floating globes, except for the lamps on the desk that were rather more twee and golden. The air smelt very strange, and the place resonated with the perception of being deep, deep underground.
Harriet couldn't shake the sensation of being watched. The magic felt as if it would eat her whole if given half the chance, and she'd let it—that it would enter the fabric of her being, and she would be forever claimed by the place.
Hælgan Stōwe, the wizards of old once called it. Before it was a Department, before it was a mystery. Sacred. Otherworldly. Incomprehensible.
The chamber opened onto a new room through a wide, soaring archway. Harriet couldn't help but pause and take in the spectacle before her.
Soaring towers of shelves stretched toward a ceiling so far away, Harriet could scarcely see it yawning above them. The shelves contained thousands upon thousands of glass orbs, none of them uniform in shape, each emitting a faint, murky blue light, their insides a swirling morass of gray fog. Harriet didn't notice at first, but each prophecy had a small label attached to it by a string.
It bizarrely reminded her of toe-tags in a morgue.
Gaunt's hand touched her shoulder, and she nearly leapt out of her skin. "This way, Potter," he said, almost friendly, but then he added. "Test my patience anymore, and I'll start carving into the Mudblood."
Harriet swallowed and kept walking. At least Hermione couldn't understand him.
Gaunt urged them into a quicker pace, and they hurried down a thin aisle, shoes pattering on the stone floor, candle brackets at the end of the shelves clipping their shoulders when they passed. Every so often, Harriet felt a strange flutter of magic, and then a distant click! of glass touching metal would echo into the dim. What was that? Another prophecy being struck?
She knew they'd reached their destination when Gaunt's bleeding red runes came to an end. 'Row Ninety-Seven' proclaimed the brass plaque below the shelf's stationed candle.
"It's there, Potter," Gaunt instructed, pointing. "If you value your sanity, I wouldn't suggest touching any of the others."
Cautious, Harriet took a few steps into the row, tugging Hermione along with her.
The prophecy wasn't very large. In fact, it looked quite small for something so impactful; it would fit nicely in Harriet's palm. If she squinted, she could read the faded label.
S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D
Dark Lord
and (?) Neville Longbottom
"Huh," she breathed out. S.P.T? A.P.W.B.D? And it just said "Dark Lord" and "Neville Longbottom." It didn't sound terribly factual.
"Pick it up," Gaunt ordered.
Harriet turned to look at him. Her pulse had been racing since the moment she saw the Death Eaters on the Atlas, but now it spiked again, and her hands shook. Carefully, she urged herself. Don't push too hard….
"Back up," she told Gaunt and his lackeys. "Back away from us, and you can Summon it from my hand. That'll work, yeah?"
Gaunt scoffed, and the Death Eaters snickered among each other, Bellatrix laughing loudest of all. "I'm afraid it's time to stop playing children's games, Harriet," Gaunt said, moving as if to come closer—and Harriet pointed her wand at the shelf.
"Back up, or I'll shatter the lot," she told him, and Gaunt paused, his smug smile falling. "Back up and Summon it from my hand. Do it, or watch it break."
His nostrils flared, and Harriet thought she'd gone too far, that at any moment, he'd draw his wand, and that'd be the end of Harriet Potter and Hermione Granger. But then—.
He stepped back. Gaunt flicked his hand, and a force of magic shoved the group of watching Death Eaters back as well. He allotted Harriet ten paces but not an inch more.
"Well, Potter? Make good on your end of the bargain."
And so Harriet did.
Her thin fingers wrapped about the surprisingly warm glass and plucked it from the brass prongs holding it in place. She pulled her hand back—.
Gaunt didn't hesitate. "Accio, Potter's prophecy."
Nothing happened.
Harriet looked at Gaunt as she held the prophecy up, and she twisted her arm just enough for the sleeve to pull away from her hand. On her wrist, the Charmed silver gifted to her on her twelfth birthday glittered in the pale blue light.
Harriet grinned as Gaunt's eyes widened behind his silver mask. She jabbed her wand at the closest shelf—.
"Fragor Maxima!"
A/N:
Gaunt: "I have been outsmarted by a teenager."
DEs: *nodding*
Gaunt: "Unfortunately, that means I have to kill you all."
DEs: ?!
Gaunt: "NO ONE CAN BEAR WITNESS TO MY SHAME!"
