"ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪʀʀɪᴛᴀᴛᴇꜱ ᴜꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴄᴀɴ ʟᴇᴀᴅ ᴜꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ."
― ᴄᴀʀʟ ᴊᴜɴɢ
Chapter Thirteen: The Hunted Rabbit
"Listen to this!"
The members of the Order had bunched up in a corner of the Tonks' living room, listening intently to the sounds emanating from the gramophone-like object which Diggle had just set on the side table. Mafalda allowed herself a sigh of relief with the confirmation that her mission had been accomplished; everyone seemed very tense, most of all Andromeda, who was wearing a particularly grim expression.
"Aren't the Dementors ample enough to keep the population in fear?"
That, Mafalda realised with a jolt, was Lucius Malfoy.
A wave of whispering spread through the small crowd.
"Apparently, the Dark Lord thinks not."
She'd recognise Narcissa's dulcet, cultured, quietly persuasive tones anywhere.
A chair squealed against the floor. "What now?" Lucius again.
Another woman's voice; deeper, fuller, richer, like Andromeda's, spoke. Mafalda schooled her nerves not to react.
"Teach the Mudbloods a lesson. Show we mean it." The sounds of Bellatrix getting to her feet, shoes clicking on the marble floor. "Of course, Cissy, you have been working very hard and the registry is a start—"
"Do not humour me!"
"It's true," said Bellatrix. "You are no fighter, and you have never been. That is not something to be ashamed of, not with your cleverness and cunning."
Narcissa laughed, a high, cold sound like church bells in winter. "If I did not know better, I would say you flatter me."
"But Bellatrix always tells the truth."
Mafalda jolted, and so did the others. It was not the recording that had spoken, but Andromeda, an odd look on her face between anger and wistfulness. For a minute, Mafalda had entirely forgotten that Bellatrix and Narcissa were her sisters.
How did she feel, being on the opposite side as her own flesh and blood, the possibility of facing them on the battlefield looming over her head? Mafalda had never gotten the full story of how Andromeda Black was disowned, but she imagined it must have something to do with marrying Ted Tonks.
"And what of Dark Lord's plans?" That was Lucius.
As she turned, Mafalda heard the swish of Bellatrix's robes, the pleasure in her voice at the revelation that Voldemort told her things he did not tell others. "To make good on our threat. What use is an empty promise?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Mafalda saw Hestia clap a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
"A Mudblood who has demonstrated magic but not yet attended Hogwarts, I think? That should help the message... sink in."
Instantly, Mafalda's heart started up a wild, staccato rhythm against her ribcage, and her hands went slick with sweat. Everyone else around her seemed similarly disturbed.
"Diggle. Do we know who's been targeted?" asked Mad-Eye, both his eyes fixed on the artefacts expert, who sighed.
"I'm afraid not. Recording cuts out there. Damned enchantment must have worn off."
Or been discovered, thought Mafalda. Hopefully, she's not suspicious of me. Narcissa is very observant.
"Anyone who works at the Ministry have a copy of the registry?" asked Andromeda.
Kingsley Shacklebolt gave a grim nod, then produced a thin booklet out of the pocket of his robes and flicked his wand, causing the lights in the room to glow brighter. Mad-Eye pushed his way to the front of the small crowd, and transfigured a small print hanging on the wall into a blackboard, and a stray pencil stub into a piece of chalk.
"Need to start narrowing it down," said Mad-Eye gruffly. "Can't stake out everywhere."
"Well, she said only Muggle-borns who aren't Hogwarts-age yet, so that's a start," Tonks pointed out, and Mad-Eye flicked his wand at the chalk, which scrawled out a bullet point on the blackboard.
The room fell silent after that. It was something no one particularly wanted to think about, but ignoring it wouldn't make the problem go away.
Bill cleared his throat and said tentatively: "Maybe someone who's got a sibling at Hogwarts or another witch or wizard in the family. It might make it... harder to ignore."
The sounds of the chalk against the chalkboard were nearly torturous. Bill's expression was pained; Mafalda couldn't imagine what it was like to have so many younger siblings in times like this, especially when half of them were unreachable and there was no way to know if they were alive or dead. Still, Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain. Even with Voldemort's incursions.
"Kids who've got siblings at Hogwarts... Kingsley, you can cross-reference the Muggle-born registry with the Hogwarts list?"
"Should be easy enough."
"Probably, it will be someone who's ten or eleven." Everyone turned to look at her; Mafalda was always surprised to hear herself speaking in these meetings. She felt rather like the token Slytherin, habitually coming up with awful things to think of. "It would be crueller to pick off a child who's nearly safe."
"I agree," said Andromeda in a harsh tone. "It fits. Put that down too, Alastor."
Mafalda remembered that she was not, after all, the token Slytherin. She took in the older witch's appearance; yes, very much like Bellatrix, the way her eyes blazed with determination, the proud lift of her chin.
It's a good thing we have her on our side.
Transfiguration, as usual, was a real headscratcher.
Harry glowered at the hedgehog perched on his desk as if his stare alone could cause it to spontaneously transmute.
"Miss Granger remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion," said Professor McGonagall. "I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!"
Seamus nudged his companion's 'pincushion' with his wand, causing it to emit a piteous moan. Titters erupted in the classroom. Beside him, Ron snorted, too.
Harry did not share in that levity. Yes, the poisoning seemed to have been thwarted, but Slytherin House, on the other hand, had gone stark raving mad. Or most of it, anyway.
"Mudblood" could often be heard whispered in the back of classes or behind shelves in the library. Someone tried to push Justin Finch-Fletchley down the stairs. People made (unfounded) threats about opening the Chamber of Secrets again. A fair portion of the student body was out for blood.
And then there was the problem of Tom Riddle. Why had he shown himself? What did he want? Was he behind all the strange happenings? What did Dumbledore—
"Potter."
Harry jumped, jostling Ron's elbow and upsetting the hedgehog, which screeched in fear.
"Oh, right," he muttered, waving his wand in something approximating the correct pattern and speaking the incantation.
The hedgehog shrunk a little, and the nose and beady eyes disappeared. The result was spiny and not very cushion-like.
Professor McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Keep trying," she said and swept off to inspect the next student.
Harry did keep trying, but not very hard, for he couldn't get his mind off the encounter with Riddle.
He thinks we have a common enemy? Does he mean Voldemort? But he is Voldemort!
I can't trust anything he says. He's trying to throw me off. He must be.
Anyway, Sirus and Remus's present was excellent preparation in case Riddle tried anything. Harry, in particular, had devoted a lot of time to practising the Impediment Jinx, and he'd been holed up in Myrtle's bathroom after curfew brewing.
By the time class was over, Harry's hedgehog hadn't gotten any closer to being a pincushion. As he gathered up his things and set off for Potions with the Slytherins, his mind remained on Voldemort.
Was there any way he and Riddle could be sending messages? The school was supposed to be completely separated from the outside world, but if there was the tiniest leak, he was certain Voldemort was capable of exploiting it.
"Riddle knows more about the poisonings than he lets on," said Harry.
"Harry," said Hermione in a warning tone. "He's dangerous."
"And what's Nott doing, talking to him?" Ron piped up. "Maybe he's the one who's poisoning everyone, cantarella or no cantarella. Why else would he tell everyone about Ruby? It's to take the blame off himself!"
"Making up conspiracy theories won't solve anything," said Hermione firmly. "We have to keep looking for clues."
"I think Nott talking to Riddle's a pretty big clue."
Hermione was about to retort, but they were drawing close to the Potions classroom, where people were already filing through the door. Harry found himself at a bench with Neville, Ron and Hermione sitting directly in front of them. At the front of the classroom, Snape was reading an old issue of Magic. Once the hour had struck, he put it aside and stood up, saying:
"Some of you will benefit from today's assignment: Wit-Sharpening Potion." Snape's gaze travelled through the classroom, landing on Neville. He tapped the blackboard behind him, which already had the steps written out. "Perhaps you should begin immediately."
Harry tipped his weighed-out scarab beetles into his mortar and ground them up furiously, imagining Riddle's face. Beside him, Neville struggled to do the same, the beetles scampering out of the way of the pestle.
On his other side, Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass were working at a bench together. The latter was methodically dicing ginger root, and the former turned his head to give Harry a sly smile.
Harry tore his gaze away and reached for a grater. It was always better to grate ginger, it released more of the oils.
"Do you ever follow instructions, Potter, or do you merely consider yourself above reading?" asked Snape as he swept by the bench, peering into Harry's cauldron, where the crushed beetles were already simmering.
Harry was familiar with this routine; Snape doing his best to get Harry to snap back at him, which was an excuse to take points from Gryffindor. In fact, the instructions simply said, 'Prepare ginger root.' He wisely held his tongue and took out his anger on the poor ginger root, reducing it to a stringy yellow sludge.
Neville, however, quaked at Snape's sudden, domineering presence, and nearly knocked both cauldrons over.
"I know it must be a congenital affliction, but do make an effort to be less of an idiot, Longbottom."
Snape stalked off, and Harry offered Neville what he hoped was a sympathetic look. The other boy returned it with something between a wince and a smile.
Attending to his now-grated ginger root, Harry's thoughts returned to Theodore Nott. Why had Riddle talked to him? What was the it Riddle was looking for? And the him?
There are forces at play that you don't understand!
So tell me, then, Harry thought angrily. He moved on to measuring out armadillo bile.
He really ought to talk to Dumbledore. Ordinarily, he thought Ruby did enough talking to Dumbledore for the both of them, but obviously, she wasn't asking the right questions.
Thankfully, she usually let him know the password to his office, at least when she remembered to tell him.
He added the armadillo bile to the cauldron, counting the clockwise stirs, and lowered the temperature of the flames. Neville was still fumbling with his ginger root.
There was an hour spare after Potions. No time like the present.
In front of him, he saw Hermione surreptitiously stir Ron's potion, as he appeared to have forgotten in favour of leaning over his bench to whisper something to Dean Thomas.
He quietly and quickly finished the rest of his potion and was the first to raise his hand to have his potion checked.
"In a hurry, Potter?" Snape goaded.
Hermione looked over her shoulder, clearly surprised. Refusing to say anything for fear of a delay, Harry stepped away from his cauldron so Snape could inspect the contents.
"Acceptable. You may leave."
To Ron and Hermione's confusion, Harry hastily gathered up the remainder of his Potions ingredients, swept them into his bag, and hurried out the door and up several flights of stairs to the Headmaster's Tower.
Breathing hard, he stammered out, "Iced mice," to the stone gargoyle, who leapt aside and allowed him passage up the stairs.
Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, as usual, his quill busy. He looked up, observing Harry quizzically from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles.
"Sorry, Professor," said Harry, suddenly feeling sheepish. "I didn't mean to barge in."
"Well," said Dumbledore affably, "I did ask you to visit. Will you sit? What troubles you?"
Hurriedly, Harry did so, letting his bookbag drop to the floor. He leaned forward over the desk.
"Riddle."
"Ah. Yes. I see how that might trouble you. I confess, Harry, he troubles me too. A great deal."
"He's got something to do with the poisonings," said Harry.
"I am not so sure."
Red swam before Harry's eyes, and he tasted bile. "Of course he is, he's Voldemort, all he knows how to do is kill—"
Suddenly, his gaze fell upon a framed picture, one of a much younger Dumbledore, his hair shorter and auburn, smiling faintly, his face less lined, his hand resting on Tom Riddle's shoulder, the latter with a stiff, shy, but not unpleasant expression, a prefect badge pinned to his robes. Dumbledore and Tom Riddle; Dumbledore and Voldemort. It seemed absurd.
"You see, Harry, I had believed, I had hoped he could change, for that is not all he is. Voldemort is more than a mindless killer, and that is where the danger in him lies. He is also a scared boy who, instead of making peace with the darkness inside him, as we must all do to become whole, allowed it to twist him." Dumbledore's voice was solemn, but there was a distinct, almost imploring note underneath it.
"Am I meant to feel sorry for him?" It was a genuine question. He could only think of Riddle standing before him the night the castle was attacked. Of the strange, misplaced kinship, of rage and pity. It was like seeing himself in one of those funhouse mirrors; his reflection twisted into something grotesque and disturbing.
"Of course not. Your feelings are your own. I only hope you don't regret them, as we often do. I cannot compel you; I only hope and advise that you do not fall victim, as so many of us do, to letting vengeance taint your soul."
Is that what happened to him, wondered Harry. And he thought, darkly, of the Obscurus.
You're so angry. I'm angry, too. We're both Parselmouths, both half-bloods, both orphans. We even look something alike.
And then, the fear in Riddle's eyes when he'd said, Because I'm born as the seventh month dies.
"Professor Dumbledore," said Harry, picking up the photograph and peering at it, "what does that prophecy say about me? Ruby won't tell me, but I think Riddle knows it."
For a second, Dumbledore truly looked his age, the twinkle in his eyes ancient and his face nearly mummified. Then, he spoke.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."
Yes. That was what Riddle had repeated back to him in the Owlery.
"He's scared — he's scared I'll kill him?" A laugh tore itself unbidden from Harry's throat. Flashes of Voldemort-as-Quirrell goading on the Obscurus, Voldemort taunting him in the dungeon room, Voldemort duelling Dumbledore for the right to drag Harry out of Hogwarts and kill him where he could be harmed replayed themselves in his head, tainted with the feeling of utter helplessness. "That's ridiculous, Professor!"
"As your sister would say, Divination is a woolly subject."
Still, it filled Harry with a heady mix of fear and determination.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "That being established, shall I tell you more of the prophecy?"
This is what you wanted, after all. To know what is being kept secret. Despite himself, Harry found himself drawn to Ruby's outburst at Christmas, of her fear of Seeing Beyond, of knowing things that couldn't be changed.
If it's coming, let it come.
"Yes, please. I want to know more."
Dumbledore quirked a white-grey eyebrow and continued. "...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... "
He watched Harry for his reaction. Almost without thinking, his hand went to his lightning-shaped scar, the scar which insistently stung around Voldemort and Riddle. He knew the scar had been the result of Voldemort's ill-fated Killing Curse, a curse that Sirius had said in Defence class had the distinctive property of never leaving a mark.
Power Voldemort doesn't have? Like my Obscurus?
Remembering Hermione reading aloud her Ancient Runes notes in the common room, he murmured: "The sun is ever a joy in the hopes of seafarers..."
"... when they journey away over the fishes' bath, until the courser of the deep bears them to land," Dumbledore finished. "The sun, being the first level meaning, alludes to a source of great power. When your mother discovered you were marked for death, she learnt of an old, deep magic, intuitive and natural, one he knows exists and detests and does not fundamentally understand. In his arrogance, in his over-confidence in his abilities, upon their last meeting, he ignored what he knew to be a dead man's switch."
But — despite the machinations of Lily Evans — how could he be Voldemort's equal? Voldemort, a force of nature itself, infinitely powerful — even his younger self seemed to get by very well without a wand. Could Harry possibly grow into that power? Was that what the Sorting Hat had seen, why it wanted so badly to place him in Slytherin, too?
He looked up at Dumbledore questioningly.
"That is enough for now," said Dumbledore in a tone that did not brook objections.
Resolving to file away the words of the prophecy for further reflection, Harry brought up his original query.
"Riddle spoke to me at Christmas. He was acting... er... strange. He was looking for someone, or something, or both, maybe."
Dumbledore's eyes seemed to grow larger behind his spectacles.
"He said we've got a common enemy, but that can only be Voldemort. He must be trying to trick me. It all sounds crazy, doesn't it?"
It sounded absolutely mental to say it out loud. Maybe Hermione was right; he was turning into a conspiracy theorist.
Maybe he wouldn't be making up ridiculous theories if things started making sense!
"I am not sure to what end Tom would lie."
Harry wasn't either. But he was more struck by the casual, easy way that Dumbledore referred to him as 'Tom.' How was he able to separate the stiff, shy boy in the photograph from the fearsome Dark Lord? Was it the same way he could separate Ruby and Vernon's murder? Harry and his Obscurus?
I wonder what Dumbledore separates from himself.
"Hypothetically," said Harry, "what if he did lie?"
"I think if Tom wanted to withhold information from you, he would simply continue to make himself scarce."
"And if he wanted to confuse me?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I think we had better investigate what Tom Riddle is so desperately searching for."
"Which is?"
"Well," said Dumbledore heavily, "I have my theories. But I must confess, Harry, I do not know."
The Creevey farm was still and quiet and slumbering, not knowing what was about to happen there. But the night did, the quiet, watching night, the moon an accessory to every crime committed under her silver gaze.
"Too exposed," Kingsley muttered, glancing around. Aside from the house, there was a stables, where Mafalda assumed the animals were, and a few bales of hay.
They crept behind the bales, three at a time. Not ideal, but their only shelter.
Mafalda heard the soft pop of Apparition. They had chosen the right house. At first, her body was flooded with relief, and then, as more and more pops resounded in the cold, wet January air, fear. She drew her knees up into a crouch, her wand at the ready. Her heartbeat throbbed in her fingertips. Her insides had turned to mush.
She counted five Death Eaters to their eight. Still bad odds, considering only three of their number were Aurors and one was a Healer.
Beside her, in the faint light, Hestia counted under her breath and grimaced.
"Why not just torch the place down and be done with it, Bella?"
Mafalda threw her head back against the hay bale and winced, more cold, shaky fear flooding through her. She's here, she's always here.
"It is not about simple death and destruction; we are sending a message," Bellatrix reprimanded in a darkly playful tone that made Mafalda feel sick to her stomach. I wonder what Andromeda's thinking.
She turned her head and caught Mad-Eye Moody's gaze from across the field. Wait for the signal.
"Softly, Rabastan," Bellatrix was saying, and Mafalda chanced a glance behind the hay bale.
Silhouetted in the electric light near the front door of the house, were five black-robed figures. The first was unmistakably Bellatrix, her dark, thick hair blowing in the cold breeze. She had called Rabastan Lestrange by name, a rail-thin wizard with shaggy brown hair that nearly covered his Death Eater mask. So the hulking one beside him must be his brother Roldophus... The others, Mafalda did not recognise by their sihouettes alone.
"Wands at the ready," Mad-Eye instructed. "On my count."
"Three."
Mafalda gripped her maple wand, her fingers slick. She hoped she wouldn't drop it.
"Two."
Carefully but quickly, she got to her feet, Hestia doing the same beside her.
"One."
Her blood rushing in her ears, Mafalda emerged from behind the hay bale, aiming her wand at the closest Death Eater, and yelled: "Stupefy!"
A jet of red light whizzed through the cold, wet air towards the Death Eater as he rolled his body away from it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mad-Eye had engaged Rodolphus and Kingsley Rabastan.
The unknown Death Eater lunged towards Mafalda, hissing and sending a curse of his own back. Mafalda barely managed to dodge, her face feeling the heat of it as it whizzed past. That was close, too close.
"Only spell you know?" the Death Eater taunted as he blocked another Stunning Spell.
All of a sudden, he went stiff as a board and then slumped to the ground in a heap of black robes. Agape, Mafalda stared at the witch standing behind him, wand still drawn.
"Hestia!"
"He can laugh all he wants. It's a good spell."
She knelt down, a halo of light around the tip of her wand, bizarrely calm, and inserted two fingers under the Death Eater's mask, pulling it free from his face. "Barty Crouch Junior, it would appear."
A boom resounded. The sounds of spells whizzing through the air faltered.
Bellatrix had successfully forced the door open, and it hung off just the bottom hinge, ajar and fluttering in the wind. A look of triumph, and something else unreadable, was upon her face.
"It's been a long time, sister."
Time seemed to freeze as Andromeda and Bellatrix locked eyes for the first time. Seeing them together, Bellatrix standing above her on the veranda and Andromeda gazing up at her, reminded Mafalda of how the latter had gazed admiringly at the former in the photograph. But there was no smiling now.
For a second, Bellatrix's face contorted with emotion.
"No sister of mine," she spat. "You left us a long time ago. Betrayed us for your Mudblood lover, to become scum like him!" Her voice rose, distorted with rage. "You are nothing more than a forgotten, blotted-out smear on the history of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! I hate you!"
Andromeda was silent for a moment.
"I loved you, Bella. I still do. But you have gone down a path I will not follow. And tonight, I will stop you."
"You will try."
In one fluid motion, she drew her wand. Andromeda stood before the door, her daughter behind her, with her wand drawn and pointed at Bellatrix's head. Tonks's gaze darted to her mother, anxiety in her stance and shoulders.
Behind them, Mad-Eye and Kingsley had restrained Rodolphus and Rabastan, the elder Lestrange brother unconscious and the younger struggling fruitlessly in his binds. The elder Elphias Doge had similarly restrained the last Death Eater.
Bellatrix surveyed the scene, her confidence appearing not to falter even as she took in the sight of her fallen allies. Slowly, she reached up to her face and flung her white opera mask away. Fear coiled, heavy and cold, around Mafalda's stomach.
The boards of the veranda creaked under her feet as she stalked towards Andromeda and Tonks, the latter rotating her body to keep her wand trained on Bellatrix.
A too-wide smirk spread across her face.
"Baby Andy. And your half-blood spawn. ... Come to play?"
Tonks shouted in anger and sent a spell at Bellatrix's head. The older witch dodged it easily and flicked her wand in Rabastan's and the other Death Eater's direction, slicing through their binds.
All hell broke loose.
Rabastan and Kingsley resumed their duel, jets of light flying to and fro but always seeming to miss their target. Rabastan whirled around, shouting, "Rennervate!"
The other Death Eaters began to stir, and the one Hestia had Stunned leapt to his feet, glowering and grinning at Mafalda with wild, red-rimmed eyes under his mop of fair hair, like a malevolent, straw-coloured rodent.
"You Order people never learn! Decency is a common weakness — here, let me teach you, girl — Avada Kedavra!"
The emerald light barrelled towards her, and Mafalda froze on the spot like a deer in headlights, but the spell never connected. The hem of her sleeve trailed smoke, singed from the curse.
Hestia had shoved her just out of the way. That was close. Too close.
"Here, Mafalda, I've got him— get the Creeveys out, now!"
"Too much for you to handle, Mudblood?" Crouch jeered, only barely avoiding Hestia's Impediment Jinx.
He's right, thought Mafalda shakily. I've never been in a real duel before.
She backed away from Hestia and Crouch, ducking through the hail of moving bodies and stray spells as she raced towards the door. Bellatrix was furiously duelling Andromeda and Tonks, her face flushed with exertion, yelling taunts. Boards from the veranda popped out and sailed through the air.
Breaking into a run, Mafalda ducked through the doorway, the sound of spellfire fading as she entered the house, finding herself in a small kitchen.
"Lumos!"
Mafalda's light illuminated the dark kitchen, revealing a fearful tableau hidden in the shadows. The family stood huddled together, a man clutching the telephone and staring at her wide-eyed, a woman holding so tightly onto a boy in pyjamas that her knuckles paled.
"Please," said Mr. Creevey, his voice strained. He held a hand out as if to warn her off. We don't want any trouble. Please. Is it money you want? I'll get it! Just don't hurt us!"
Slowly, Mafalda lowered her wand. They must be terrified. They must be scared out of their minds.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
That must sound convincing, with the sounds of battle outside growing to a crescendo.
"Look, you're in danger. You've been targeted by Death Eaters. You know what Death Eaters are?"
Mr. and Mrs. Creevey exchanged a look.
"Yes, yes, Colin told us. Are you..." The woman looked at Mafalda suspiciously; honestly, she couldn't blame her.
But still, she panicked. "I'm in the Order; I'm on your side! I need to get your son somewhere safe!"
Mafalda reached out for the boy, but his mother only held him tighter.
"Now! There's no time!"
The sounds outside had quieted. That might not be good. Have we won?
She looked to the window, but the blinds were drawn.
"He's in danger! They want to kill him!"
"I'm not letting you take our son!" yelled Mr. Creevey.
"You have to! You don't understand! You have to trust me! Now give him to me, quick!"
A loud blast resounded; Bellatrix appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, and the family huddled even tighter together.
"Step aside, girl!" She threw her long hair back behind her shoulders, advancing into the room like a panther stalking her prey.
"Now!" Mafalda demanded. "Give him to me!"
The Creeveys froze. Mrs. Creevey looked between Mafalda and Bellatrix, her face stricken, and released the boy.
Mafalda grabbed the boy by the arm, just as Bellatrix raised her wand, her heart racing, and spun on her heel. The sensation of being forced through a tight rubber tube subsided; without thinking, Mafalda had Apparated them back home. They stood on the street outside her flat. By now, night had fallen, and but for the streetlamps, it was completely dark. She heard the distant howls of the Dementors.
"We should get inside, er..."
"Dennis," said the boy, looking up at her with wide, scared eyes. "Will my mum and dad be okay?"
"Of course they will," said Mafalda, fumbling for her keys as they went up the stairs to the apartment entrance. They probably wouldn't be, but she'd be an idiot to tell the boy that now.
"Forgetting something?"
A haughty voice made her blood run cold.
Mafalda nearly jumped out of her skin.
Bellatrix Lestrange stood before her, wand drawn, expression determined. "I shall not fail the Dark Lord," she said firmly.
She must have grabbed on while I was Apparating!
"Hand me the boy, Prewett."
Looking down, Mafalda realised her hand was still white-knuckling Dennis's arm. The boy's face was a mask of fear, his wide eyes fixed on Bellatrix.
Mafalda's heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach. Shoving the boy up the steps towards the door, she swallowed her fear, lifted her wand, and shouted, "Protego!"
She can't break the Statute of Secrecy. She can't. She won't. Right?
Bellatrix tilted her head back and laughed, a hard, cruel, tinkling sound like bare feet on broken glass. "Prewett, you cannot win against me! The Dark Lord has taught me spells of power such that you, girl, cannot possibly hope to comprehend!"
Mafalda's shield burst on first impact, and she only barely managed to duck the orange jet of light Bellatrix aimed at her head, but it splintered the door behind her, the Blasting Curse blowing it completely off its hinges and sailing into the foyer, where it crashed to the floor with a loud slam.
If I go inside, she'll follow me. If I go toward her, she'll kill me.
She's right. I can't possibly win against her!
"You will die here!" shouted Bellatrix, as if she knew what Mafalda was thinking. "You should have joined my master when you had the chance! But I am merciful; I will give you the choice to live. Give me the boy!"
In her mind's eye, Mafalda saw her uncles, who had never surrendered. Every good Slytherin should know her limits. But every good Slytherin is ambitious.
"Stupefy!" she yelled, but Bellatrix flicked the Stunner away like swatting a fly.
"Oh, you fool, you worthless child— Crucio!"
It felt like Mafalda's veins were pure fire, and she screamed as the pressure in her head threatened to eject her eyes from her skull.
There were a thousand knives under her skin. They tore at her throat and wedged themselves inside her ears.
Mafalda knew it only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like the pain had lasted for hours as she stood up and wiped the blood from her mouth. She vaguely realised that her face was bleeding.
Bellatrix was an architect of pain. An artist of torture, she painted with blood and mingled the horrific visuals with the screaming that was music to her ears, and the result brought her infinite joy.
Mafalda's legs felt like they were made of jelly, and her nerves felt raw. Behind her, Dennis let out a strangled gasp. He was lying on the floor, one of his legs at an odd angle; Bellatrix's Blasting Curse must have caught him.
"Now, the boy!"
"I won't let you." There was blood in her mouth. She was determined. "I've got a mission too."
"CRUCIO!"
Mafalda tensed, forgetting all her training, the knowledge of dodging and blocking giving way to instinct. She froze. This time, the pain was fire, searing and blurring her reality into a maelstrom of misery, blurring even the ear-shattering scream that tore itself from her throat—
And then it was gone, the concrete cold and rough against her face, the ache of her bruised limbs a welcome respite from the agony as she scrambled to her feet.
They were gone. Bellatrix and Dennis.
No. No. No no no!
Her heart stuttered in her throat. Dennis, frightened and with a broken leg. By now, dead.
She'd failed. Mafalda sunk to her feet again and uttered a low groan.
I had one job. And all I did was get in the way of everyone else.
Barely caring about the Statute, Mafalda Apparated back to the farmhouse, landing hard on the cold ground. She stumbled to her feet, chaos all around her.
"It is done!" Bellatrix's voice, and then the resounding of pops all around her, the Death Eaters disappearing as quickly as they had come.
She heard distant wailing, or at least it seemed distant.
"Here, you're Splinched," said a calm voice. "Let's take a look at it."
Mafalda had not noticed the deep gash soaking her coat sleeve with blood or Ted Tonks beside her. Nor a pale-looking Hestia nor the shell-shocked faces of the Creeveys.
"Where is he?" asked a grief-stricken voice. "Where is our son?"
"I—" Mafalda touched a hand to her face. It was wet. "I couldn't save him. I failed. Bellatrix, she—"
"You did all you could," said Ted, rolling her sleeve up to inspect the wound. "Don't blame yourself."
He was cleaning it now. She could see she had Splinched herself nastily; there was dark blood oozing from it, staining her forearm. How had Dennis died? Bellatrix liked to play with her food. She hoped it had been quick.
How strange to think of a child dying and only hope it had been quick.
Ted was working to knit the skin together under a green light; Mafalda felt a dull ache not in her arm but wedged somewhere between her ribs.
Wait. Green.
Slowly, she lifted her head to the sky. The Dark Mark sparkled above the house, an emerald constellation in the shape of a skull. A serpent, glittering in the night, protruded from the skull's wide-open grimace, bathed in a haze of green smoke.
And she knew fear.
A/N: I know in canon dad Creevey is a milkman, but I liked the idea of a farmhouse.