ccxc. mother, maiden, crone

Bellatrix's scream of rage chased Harriet into the dark as it rose above her head, and she plunged toward the void below.

She only had time to utter one quick, rushed curse before she transformed into her Animagus form. Changing into a crow as she fell was disorienting, and as she tried to furiously beat her wings and slow down, she found herself tumbling arse over elbow—or, rather, tail-feathers over talon—deeper and deeper into the earth.

The crow wriggled and flapped like a defunct umbrella—when suddenly the pit curved at the base, and Harriet hit the side with an ungainly squawk, sliding along until it opened like the mouth of a pipe. She came rocketing out the end.

Harriet fell with a thump upon a new floor. She opened her beak and clicked and cawed with pain until she transformed again. She let out a proper groan and coughed.

"Ugh, that was a bad idea," she wheezed on her back, her abraded skin stinging beneath her clothes. Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and took a moment to breathe and catalog her own body. Her knees throbbed from the jarring impact, but otherwise didn't hurt. Pain lanced through her foot, and Harriet thought one of her toes might be broken. Of course, her face and arm still burned, and her elbow ached something fierce from Dolohov's curse. Overall, it was better than she could have hoped.

"Definitely won't be telling Snape about that one," she grunted, gingerly sitting up. "Don't much fancy seeing how much higher I can raise that poor bloke's blood pressure."

Harriet managed to roll to her feet with some difficulty, still clutching her wand in one hand, the other folding over her bruised ribs. She turned to study the room—and paused.

It was quite a bit plainer than the other chambers she'd passed through so far—and by plainer, Harriet meant bloody empty. There were no desks, no shelves, no clutter on the bare stone walls, and no mysterious artifacts or trinkets. One pewter statue stood in the center of the small chamber—a rather eerie thing comprised of three women. One looked quite young, maybe a year older than Harriet, and she clasped hands with an older lady who had lines formed about her eyes, whose smile was more reserved than that of the young woman. Their arms formed a bridge over the stooped head of an old witch. Her smile better resembled a sneer, and she held a burning candle in one hand that was the room's only source of light. The other wizened hand she held extended, palm up as if waiting for something to be placed in it.

There were no windows, a singular entrance to the pit some two meters up the wall behind Harriet—and no doors. Not a single one.

"You've got to be kidding me," Harriet muttered as she pushed herself into action, approaching the closest wall. She made a quick circuit of the room, patting every surface, then started tapping bricks with her wand. Nothing happened. She tried several revealing Charms taught to her by Slytherin and Dumbledore both, but again—nothing happened.

"For Merlin's sake," she huffed, popping a hand onto her hip. She was stumped. She glanced toward the pit's bottom, wondering how long it'd take before one of the Death Eaters mustered the ability to come down it and search. Maybe they'd figure out how to conjure lava and fill the room. It did make her question where in the hell Gaunt had gotten off to.

Harriet shivered at the thought.

With nothing else to do, she returned her attention to the statue. It stood slightly larger than life, which meant all three women loomed about a foot higher than Harriet's head. She circled them, inspecting their carved robes, how their bodies seemed caught in the middle of a dance—aside from the old woman, who stood solidly between the pair. Her eyes followed Harriet.

Stopping in front of the witch, Harriet stared at her in turn. A minute passed, and she poked the statue's lined cheek. "Oi. Let me out of here."

Nothing happened.

Huffing, Harriet returned to her pointless, restless pacing, her foot throbbing, back aching. Her attention kept coming back to the old hag's hand, how it reached out, waiting.

Harriet stopped in front of her again and slowly, slowly laid her own hand within the statue's.

Nothing happened.

"Well, fine," she grumbled, snatching her hand back. She paced again.

Harriet hadn't noticed at first, but by the floor of the open pit, a loose scattering of runes had formed. They looked to be the movable stone runes she'd seen above, and Harriet picked one up, frowning. Did the Unspeakables use the pits to discard these? Is this where they go? A sudden bolt of inspiration struck her, and she rushed back toward the statue with a handful of runes. She set one in the witch's hand and—.

Nothing happened.

Harriet tried all the runes to similar effect, and she let out a frustrated growl as she dropped them on the floor once more.

"What do you want?" she demanded, receiving no answer. "Picky hag!"

Harriet resorted to shuffling through her pockets, finding all manner of rubbish forgotten therein. She gave the witch a Galleon and two knuts.

Nothing happened.

She gave her a graded Transfiguration essay marked with an 'E' at the top.

Nothing.

She dropped a smashed Chocolate Frog box onto her palm.

Nothing.

"Have it your way, then," Harriet snapped as she grabbed the box and ripped it open. She crouched as she furiously ate the chocolate, glowering at the floor. The Death Eaters hadn't followed her so far, but how much time did Harriet have to idle in here before they did follow her? Would help ever come? Had Elara reached the Order yet? Was Hermione somewhere safe?

Worry for her friends consumed Harriet as she swallowed the last of the frog, the food sitting sour in her belly. She dipped her hand into her pocket once more—and her fingertips grazed warm, rippled glass.

Blinking, Harriet withdrew the prophecy clenched in her hand.

She studied it for a long moment, watching the mist within churn and twist. "Might as well," she muttered, and when she stood up, Harriet carefully settled the prophecy in the witch's grasp.

Harriet jumped when stone fingers curled around the sphere. The old woman's arm retracted toward herself, clutching the prophecy beneath her bowed head as she leered at Harriet, and the other women folded themselves above her, bringing their arms down as if protecting the old hag.

Across the room, a section of wall opened.

Harriet didn't think twice about bolting for the exit.

Her trainers slid down a steep ramp, and she hopped at the end of it so she wouldn't stumble. Torches sprang to life, flames bursting to the fore along the pillars of a massive stone area. The breadth of it took Harriet's breath away, and she spun in place as she tried to see all of it contained in the belly of the monstrously large cavern.

How deep underground am I? she wondered. This is still the Ministry, right? Dozens of stairs and shadowed pockets in the distant walls seemed to lead toward different places, so Harriet assumed she hadn't left the Department yet. That offered little comfort.

Making small, cautious steps, she moved through the colonnade into the area proper. The main, leveled floor was depressed at least half a meter, and several inches of crystal clear water quietly trickled and circled a central rock that rose from the arena's middle like a lonely island. Harriet stepped into the water, and it didn't wet her robes. Her fingers passed through it and came out bone-dry.

Not water, then, she thought. Not normal water, at least.

Wading through the strange liquid, she approached the island, her wand held at the ready. On the surface of the pitched rock rose a towering dolmen. It was obviously very old, like something you might find in Stonehenge or dotted through Cornwall's granite moors. What was particularly peculiar about it was the bizarre, semi-transparent curtain attached to the capstone. It rippled without a lick of breeze as if someone had just passed through it.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

Harriet stepped onto the rock—and started hearing voices.

"Go back, sweetheart!" a woman cried.

"Don't come this way, Harriet!" a man shouted.

Harriet whipped around, wand raised. She scanned the area—but there was nobody there.

Her hands shook. Those voices had sounded…familiar.

Still searching, Harriet eventually turned around—and jumped.

A figure had appeared between herself and the dolmen, a figure nearly three meters tall, wrapped in a faded black cloak with a sizable tear along the edge. She could see nothing of his face or person, only the skeletally thin arms that ended in dark, pointed fingers.

He shook his head.

Harriet stumbled back a step, then another, shocked and little more than slightly horrified. The voices kept shouting at her. The creature pointed one of those fingers in another direction, and suddenly—.

Little Harriet stared, first in terror, then in wonder, as the monster in the boot cupboard made shadow puppets on the wall, and her fear subsided inch by inch.

Familiar, familiar hands forming dazzling shapes—.

"…Set?" she whispered, heart thundering. "Set…is that…you?"

"Comprimo!"

The curse struck Harriet in the side, and it slammed her down, tumbling off the rock. She kept her head from touching the strange water, but only barely, and she gasped against the crushing pressure squeezing her ribs.

The Death Eaters had found her at last. When she chanced a glance toward the dolmen, the looming figure had disappeared.

"Where is the prophecy, Potter?!" Bellatrix demanded, sparing no time for attempted mockery. Both she and Dolohov looked the worse for wear; his mask had been splintered, one sleeve torn off, and Bellatrix had blood in her hair. Rodulphus had a definite limp, and Pettigrew looked ready to shift forms and flee for his life.

Harriet could only imagine what nightmares they'd see down there.

"What prophecy?" she snarked when the curse finally relented, and she could stagger to her feet. It hurt to breathe, her sides throbbing so painfully, Harriet resisted the urge to jump in place and shout to abate it. She counted seven Death Eaters, with Accipto included.

"Don't reason with her. We need to get the fuck out of here," Rodulphus sneered, hand gripping his thigh. "I hope the Dark Lord burns this place to ashes. Kill the stupid bint, and let's get on with it."

"No!" Runcorn snapped. "Our Lord wants the honor himself," he argued.

"Yeah? Fuck your Lord," Rodulphus retorted, seething. "Gaunt, the pretender. The true Lord would rather have her dead carcass and the prophecy than nothing at all!"

As they bickered, Harriet watched Bellatrix. The Dark witch attempted several silent spells from what Harriet could tell—probably Summoning or Detection Charms, all of which failed, considering Harriet didn't have the prophecy anymore. She, Rodulphus, and Antonin stood in the water, the others farther back between the colonnade and the arena's edge. Bellatrix glanced at the liquid around her ankles. She was the first to take an uneasy look around, her eyes narrowed and her posture stiff.

"Shut up," she snapped at her husband. When Runcorn continued his insulted sputtering, she snarled at him, too. "Shut up!" Silence fell. The water gently lapped against the stones. "Do you feel that?"

Perturbed, the Death Eaters followed Bellatrix's agitated inspection of the chamber. Harriet took the opportunity to ease farther from the rock, the water chilling where it reached toward her knees. She hoped their distraction would cover for her getting at least halfway across the pond—but a distorted reflection on the surface caught her attention. Startled, Harriet looked up and saw eyes peering down upon them. Dozens and dozens of eyes.

"…What in the fuck is that?"

Harriet's quiet exclamation was the only warning the Death Eaters received before great shadowy tentacles burst from the earth, and one swatted Rolduphus headlong into the water. Macnair screamed like a frightened woman, and Pettigrew vanished into his Animagus form. Bellatrix and Dolohov jumped into action, their wands flashing with spell after spell as the eyes bore upon them.

Harriet just ran.

She ran blindly, terrified, refusing to listen to the strange chanting and rumbling that made her ears bleed—and she collided with a solid body. She reeled back, finding herself face-to-face with a blond, red-eyed stranger. He grabbed her by the collar, and Harriet's arm jerked forward, her wand at the ready—.

The stranger moved.

It was not unlike Apparition, except for the lack of pressure and general discombobulation. In one instant, she stood in the water—and in the next, she and the stranger reappeared in a group of witches and wizards dressed in navy robes, Harriet gasping like a beached fish.

"Fecking arsehole—."

She swatted at the man's arm, and he released her. Harriet staggered, less steady than a wooden puppet, her legs too stiff to move. She nearly collapsed when Hermione crashed into her, arms wrapping about her middle in a strangling vice.

"You idiot!" she cried, frazzled hair smothering Harriet. "You absolute idiot! I'll never forgive you! Don't ever do that again!"

"All right—," Harriet coughed, patting Hermione's back. She recognized the robes on the others now. Unspeakables. They'd come at last. "Let up, blimey. I think I broke a rib."

Hermione did let up, wiping her wet cheeks on her dirty sleeve. She gripped Harriet's free hand in her own, and given the strength exerted by her squeezing fingers, Harriet guessed she wasn't about to let go.

One of the witches approached them. She looked Harriet up and down, and though Harriet had no idea who she was, she thought the woman might have recognized her.

Behind them, other Unspeakables began dashing into the area where the Death Eaters battled the eldritch monster.

The witch nodded once—a firm jerk of her chin—and she tapped one of her compatriots on the shoulder. "You," she said, careful not to use a name. "Get them out of here. Return them to the school. Through the Atrium Floos. Go."

The wizard complied in an instant, herding Hermione and Harriet further from the battle site. Harriet went with him, but she couldn't help but glance back. The wizard gave her arm a gentle tap to hurry her along. Harriet turned around.

"Who on earth was that?" she sputtered to Hermione as they hurried through a dark corridor. The wizard took the front once assured they were following, and he navigated those confusing halls with brilliant ease.

"She said—she introduced herself as Morwenna Lincroft," Hermione replied, a tad breathless. Exhaustion clung to her and Harriet, their injuries plentiful. It didn't stop them from running to keep pace with the Unspeakable. "I think—she's the Head of the Department of Mysteries."

"She is," said their guide.

That would explain her authority over the others. "And, err, who are you?" Harriet ventured to ask.

"You don't need to know that."

They spoke no further on their journey. The Unspeakable led them down another flight of stairs, through a chamber of locked doors as cold as a morgue, then across a bridge spanning an underground river. Then, they arrived at a rickety lift, and it took them straight up through the black, lightless earth. Harriet clutched Hermione's hand as they waited and waited, blind in the dark, until the lift slowed. The Unspeakable yanked open a hidden panel in the wall—.

And they stepped once more into the round room of large, black doors and brass knobs, the nebula of stars churning blissfully overhead. It was the antechamber to the Department's many sections, and the lift disappeared behind the illusion of a brick wall.

The Unspeakable started up the main stairs.

"This really was the only way out," Harriet muttered as they once more followed. "Merlin, what happens if the passage gets blocked and they can't get out?"

"I think they're prepared to die down there," Hermione returned, too quiet for the Unspeakable to hear. "Because if there is another way out, they're unwilling to show it to us."

"That's barmy."

"Maybe it's designed that way on purpose. Maybe it's for protection."

"Protection of what?"

"Us. The protection of us. To keep all of that down there."

Harriet shook herself as if chilled. They passed through the simple door barring entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

It felt as if a hundred years had passed her by in the bowels of the earth, and the lights of the mundane Ministry corridors burned Harriet's sensitive eyes as they hurried toward the next lift. She never wanted to come back here. Some mysteries deserved to remain that way.

"We need to get help for McGonagall," Harriet said as the lift rose higher, each floor narrated by that anonymous witch's cool, dispassionate voice. "And find out what happened to Elara."

Hermione nodded along as they reached their floor. "I can't imagine what's kept her from contacting the Order."

"Can't you?"

"No," Hermione argued. "Those horrid Death Eaters would have bragged about catching her if they had. She didn't run into one of them. So where is she? Where is the Order?"

Harriet had no answer for her as they crossed the silent, empty Atrium. They would have to check the Headmaster's office first. Maybe the Floo had been blocked. But what would Elara do then? Merlin, what if she got caught out by Umbridge—?

It happened in an instant. The Unspeakable in front of the two witches staggered, then choked. He grasped at his throat—then fell upon the clean, polished floor. Surprised, Harriet stumbled to the side. Her trainer splashed in a forming puddle of fresh blood.

"What—?!"

Standing in the Atrium, safe from the mayhem unfolding in the Department below their feet, Gaunt waited with his wand out, not a single hair disturbed upon his dignified head. Harriet's shocked gaze met his—and Gaunt's lip curled. His wand rose.

"Avada Kedavra!"


A/N:

Harriet: "The fuck are those?"

Harriet: "The fuck is that?!"

Harriet: "…"

Harriet: "Okay, someone needs to call an exterminator, Cthulu is literally coming out of this fucking ceiling."

Harriet: "I am going to leave the worst yelp review for this place."