Chapter Twenty
I do not become the perfect teacher overnight. Marietta does not become the perfect student either. As the week wears on, I still find myself wooden in my delivery, ponderous sometimes and occasionally impatient. Similarly, her confidence is shot— five years of schooling, she confides in me, have taken their toll.
"I don't have a favourite subject," she says on Friday, as she produces Stupefy with a twisting motion. Her foot position is off. "I barely passed OWLs last year. Only cleared three exams, to be honest. DADA and charms are my wanded subjects, and I'm okay at History of Magic. Cho's the one with talent, not me."
"Everything can be worked on," I answer. "There's more to you than meets the eye. Wait till we start doing spell chains. Then you'll get what I mean."
By Saturday I have enough faith in myself to acknowledge that the crisis has been averted, and that I've bought into the mentality of these classes being a long-term project. This is enough for me to go questing for our lady of the lake, she who must not be named.
"Daphne Greengrass!" I cry, "Daphne Greengrass! Where art thou, Daphne Greengrass?"
I do this in the middle of the great hall. Heads swivel. When they realise that it is the school's resident asylum escapee, they return to their meals.
"Here, Daph," I cry, "here, to me. To me, Daph, wherever you are."
No one seems to mind. No one, that is, except one Daphne Greengrass, who emerges from a shadowed alcove. She grabs me by the scruff of my neck and drags me into her lair, presumably to drink my blood.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" She hisses, pinching my arm.
Forest green overcoat. Strands of honeyed gold peeking from under the fringes of a black fur hat. Emerald scarf, matching pair of gloves. A tinge of red to her cheeks from the strain of snarling at me. Cute, I think, then chastise myself for the thought.
"Evidently I have," I agree amicably. "We need to talk, Daph."
She crosses her arms.
"Is this about me not attending yesterday's class?"
"No." I touch her shoulder and guide her away from the hall. We go right, then mount a set of stairs. "I am aware of your duties as Pomfrey's subordinate. You needn't spare my feelings either. I know you think the classes are a waste of time."
"I quite enjoy them," she murmurs.
I nearly lose my footing.
"I thought you'd hate them with the burning passion of a thousand suns," I gasp.
Left turn this time. She takes it first and I follow her lead. Neither of us has the first clue where we're headed. I don't, at least; I'm just happy to make conversation and spend time with her. Ever since we returned from Milan, we don't spend much time together, what between her obligations and mine. Truth be told, I miss talking to her— miss the constancy of her presence and the familiar comfort of her pointed jibes. I even miss her delightfully ironic sliver of a smile— every time it graces her lips, it is as if she's imparting a secret meant for my ears alone.
"You assigned me Third years. I did not like that at first," Daph concedes.
"But?" I prod.
"They listen," she says. "They're sweet and they are eager to learn. They remind me of what Tori was like, when she was younger."
Her expression turns sour.
"That was before she became rebellious," Daph grumbles.
Astoria, it so happens, is going to be the subject of this conversation. Since I wish to ease Daph into it, I take her by the arm and pull her into an empty classroom.
She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. I observe the rhythmic tapping of her heel, the way she tucks her hands into her sleeves whilst shivering due to the cold, and it dawns on me that each of her eccentricities is a marvel. I could explore the entirety of this castle, befriend each person in it, and I'd never find anyone else like her, because there's no one quite like Daphne Greengrass.
I huff out a laugh.
"Your lovely sister," I announce, "has made a request."
Indifference gives way to caution.
"What is it?"
"She wants to join our classes."
Daph's reaction is predictable. She shakes her head vehemently.
"She's not allowed to strain herself."
"No strain at all. I guarantee it. She won't even have to move."
"She'll get hurt in there, Harry. It is in the nature of what you teach. I refuse to let that happen."
"You can't do anything to stop her though." Then, seeing Daph's thunderous expression: "Look, Daph, just trust me, a'right? We'll stick her and her friend into one of the pits towards the edge and have them working on basic drills. I'll tell Lovegood— that's her friend— not to throw any spells at all and to focus purely on defense."
Daph weighs this.
I add some extra incentive.
"With things as tense as they are," I cajole, "don't you think it'd be better for Tori to have a trick or two up her sleeve?"
Her protective instincts war with her desire to allow Astoria a crumb of comfort.
Her love for her sister's happiness wins out.
"Four days a week." Daph sighs. "She can attend when I'm present. But when I am with Madam Pomfrey, you will not let her into your classes."
I grin.
"Deal."
We shake on it.
"And Harry?" She retracts her hand and tucks it back into her sleeve. "Don't think I don't know what Tori is up to."
This with that sardonic smile whose virtues I've just extolled. It compels me into sincerity.
"You're a good sister, Daph."
"The best," she replies. "But there's never any gratitude for it."
Astoria Greengrass joins us on Saturday evening. Luna Lovegood trails in after her and makes herself inconspicuous. But whilst Lovegood fades into the background, Astoria does not. She's single minded in pursuit of her objective.
Neville, you poor sod, I think, watching Tori sweet talk him into teaching her the stunner. I don't intend to give them more than one session together, since these classes are about improvement and Neville needs it more than anyone else; but one session is enough to build rapport— enough, I dare say, for Tori to extract a commitment of ten to fifteen minutes of personal tutoring per session. And ten minutes a day is all she needs. If she put her mind to it, Astoria could have anyone in the world eating out of the palm of her hand.
I leave them to it and approach Marietta.
"Yesterday," I begin, "right towards the end of our session, you interrupted me when I mentioned teaching you the dark arts. You said you had reservations about it. I told you to look into this. Did you?"
"Yes." Her spine stiffens. "I used the book you suggested, the one by Paxter, A Beginner's Guide to the Dark Arts. I read— oh— forty-three pages."
"And?"
"He said . . . er . . . he said that dark magic is easier to learn?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"Uh, telling." A little more emphasis. "It is. It is easier."
"It isn't." I sigh. "But I can see why you'd think that."
I gesture to the centre of the pit. This time when she sinks into her chair, she's not a total wreck. The thirst for knowledge is writ large on her face. This is what surprises me the most about Marietta— now that she's more familiar with me, she does not bother hiding just how much she covets the chance to prove herself. I want to make something of myself, is what she said to me two days ago. You're my last chance to do that.
"What Paxter says is that it is easier to execute," I explain. "The Dark Arts run on negative emotion. The connection between intent and manifestation is perfect, a feature you will find in no other form of magic. There is theory, there are wand movements, but what determines the strength of a dark sorcerer is malice— you have to mean it. You have to steep yourself in that mentality, you have to forget all about compassion. You can only use the dark arts by wanting to hurt, to maim, to butcher."
Marietta has grown pale.
"That sounds evil," she mumbles.
"Depends." I scratch my chin. "Durmstrang teaches the Dark Arts. As does most of Eastern Europe. As do Russia and most of Asia. D'you know why?"
She shakes her head.
"Because negativity is a part of the human experience," I say. "Because to learn the dark arts is to learn how to compartmentalise. At our very worst we all hate. We envy, we desire to cause harm. So instead of suppressing those emotions, we embrace them, but in the safety of a classroom. We turn it into magic, into art. And in doing so we are cleansed— we become balanced individuals, well aware of our own limitations and the darkness that lurks within."
I offer her an upturned palm and a half shrug.
"Or so the theory goes. Durmstrang pushes for self-understanding over self-repression. The use of dark magic on another human being is universally outlawed, of course, except on the duelling circuit— but knowledge of it is no crime."
Silence.
"You said it's not easier than the other forms," Marietta says hesitantly. "But this sounds . . ."
"Easy?" I suggest.
She nods.
"You need to know where to draw the line," I reply. "Since negative emotion is the crux, even someone who is otherwise poor at magic could see quick results."
I tilt my head.
"That's where a lot of people flub it. For the first time in their lives they get a taste of power. So they sink every waking minute into it. They drown themselves in that wellspring of negativity, which is only meant to be a part, not one's entire persona. And since that's all they do— since all their time is spent obsessing over negative emotion— it eventually becomes their identity. In some cases madness follows, but in most there's just the total collapse of any system of morality, at which point they are little more than the animals they once sought to tame."
I lean back.
"You need iron will to avoid falling into this trap. Or at least a competent instructor. Do you get it now?"
A nod.
"If I were to guide you through it, would you be willing to learn a few spells the Ministry would classify as dark?"
Another nod, this one more hesitant.
"Will I even be able to learn them?" She wonders.
"Is your wand core unicorn hair?"
A shake of the head.
"Dragon heartstring," Marietta says.
"You're fine then. It is only unicorn hair wielders who can't use the dark arts, for obvious reasons. Your talent may not lie in that direction, but knowing a couple of spells has never hurt anyone."
I stand.
"Now, spell chains. The first thing you have to know . . ."
"They've transferred Kingsley to Azkaban," is the first thing Neville says when he sees me on Sunday.
I am scrutinising my list for the division of class roles, whilst also observing the milling students from the corner of my eye. Therefore I am caught flat footed by this statement.
"What?"
"Kingsley Shacklebolt," he says. "They've sent him down there to be the prison warden."
"What's that got to do with us?" I ask.
"We've lost our mole in the Ministry."
"We, meaning the Order?"
"Yeah. The only reason they'd transfer him to the middle of nowhere is because they figured somehow that he was working with Dumbledore." Longbottom looks disturbed.
"He was not our only source," he continues, "we've still got Tonks, and Ron's dad, but he was the most highly placed. This is a big blow."
"Right," I say. "Listen mate, I appreciate you telling me all this, but I'm not part of your war effort."
His brow scrunches.
"You're teaching us though," he points out.
"For money," I respond, "and as a point of personal pride. Think of me as an ethical gold digger, but without the ethics or the gold."
Neville protests this pearl of wisdom.
"You think too little of yourself."
"Or else I value my life. More than the rest of you, anyway. Convey my commiserations to Auror Shacklebolt though."
I shoo him away and turn to the others.
"Listen, guys," I say, "I've decided how we're going to do this. First, I'll conduct a lesson for three hours. I'll take you through the theory, then watch you practice as a group. I'll go around correcting issues with your form. And after that, in the remaining hour, we'll split into pairs and practice duelling."
I fish out the list and wave it around.
"I've paired people already, based on your performances over the last week. These assignments are not open to change. We'll stick with them until Feb, after which I'll shuffle it around again."
And then I begin to read.
I start with the Third years— students who will never see war, not if I can help it, and who are only here to make up the numbers. I assign them to each other. Then I make my way through the rest of the class, ignoring all disgruntled murmurs. I do so until there are only a few names left. These are the ones I have expectations from, the only ones I think will be battle ready by the end of the school year.
"Ronald Weasley, Cho Chang.
"Fred Weasley, Anthony Goldstein.
"George Weasley, Angelina Johnson.
"Dean Thomas, Susan Bones.
"Daphne Greengrass, Hermione Granger."
I swear I can hear the grinding of teeth. The gimlet eye Daph gives me makes me question my odds of surviving the night.
"Tracey Davis—"
Trace bounces forward, expecting to be my partner . . .
"— Neville Longbottom."
She's devastated. She looks like someone decapitated her favourite puppy.
"Harry Potter, Marietta Edgecombe."
I tuck my list away.
"Any objections?"
Given the pandemonium that follows, I can only imagine there are several. Sadly for them, this class is a dictatorship, not a democracy.
I am being boycotted. In Potions, Trace sits with Daph and turns her nose up at me, leaving me to take the seat next to Malfoy, who starts to hyperventilate. This treatment continues in Charms, Transfiguration and DADA, all the way up to lunch, where Trace abandons silence for direct confrontation.
"This means war, traitor!" she cries, pointing at me.
I bow my head.
"I'm very sorry to have let you down, Trace."
"Oh." She goes back to her lunch. "It's ok. See that it doesn't happen again."
Daph is less forgiving.
"You put me with Granger." She gives me a sneer that Malfoy would be proud of.
I make placatory motions.
"Lemme explain my reasons."
"There is nothing that could justify this travesty!"
"Let him speak, Daph," Trace says through a mouthful of food.
"Thanks, Trace."
I take a deep breath.
"Daph, I want you to teach Granger healing."
She gives me an unimpressed glare.
"It takes half a decade to become a competent healer."
"We have eight months, and she's the only one who can do it. She seems to have perfect recall and I've never seen her struggle with anything. So take Hermione Granger under your wing, tell her what needs to be done, and let her figure out the rest."
Daph grumbles but does not refuse my request.
"And Trace, I chose Marietta because you're too good for me to waste my time on. You're the only one in that group I'd trust against a death eater."
"I'm not upset 'cause you didn't pick me." Trace sips her pumpkin juice. "I'm upset 'cause he's the Boy Who Lived. He was s'posed to be yours, not mine."
"He needs to work on technique," I elaborate. "You can teach him that— he'll learn it much quicker from you, because you're closer to his level and more patient than I am. Once you fix his biggest weaknesses, we'll switch. I'll take him and trade you Marietta."
What follows is the question I had anticipated:
"Why Edgecombe?" Daph demands.
Lunch ends. The students shuffle out. We join them; we stand and head outside, into the weakening sunlight and the snow steeped gardens.
As we walk, I explain my rationale. I speak enthusiastically about the quirk regarding her wrist. I wax lyrical about her prospective use as a surprise weapon.
I quite clearly do not do a good job at communicating my ideas though, because despite my impassioned rant, Daph is not impressed.
"Leprechaun gold," she grunts.
A summation of faithlessness. Leprechaun gold glitters just the same, but it vanishes after a few hours. It is sometimes called Fool's Gold.
I turn to Trace for moral support, but there is none to be found. She nods thoughtfully.
"Kinda silly, innit?" She asks. "I saw her a couple o' times, and I saw Dean a couple o' times— he's just . . . better. At everything. I don't get it, Harry. She's clumsy, she's worse than I used to be."
"The element of surprise—" I begin.
"— is a gimmick." Daph cuts me off. "It is of no use if she's garbage at everything else. I agree with Tracey. You are delusional. You are so enamoured with your own brilliance that you're ignoring everything that's wrong with her."
She crosses her arms.
"Leprechaun gold," she insists.
"You'll eat your words," I promise them. "With the right training she'll be a menace. I'm willing to die on that hill."
November gives way to December. Fog blankets the castle, and we are treated to the flurry of hail that heralds a snowstorm. We stay indoors. We train. The Duelling Association, as we have decided to call it, has become my life.
Herein lurks the dark side of a flawless work ethic. The qualities that propelled me to the top of the circuit are the same ones I bring to this task. I am obsessed, I am a slave driver. I drive both myself and others to near insanity. I accost them in the hallways, I supply them with handwritten notes. I hunt them down in their free time and make sure they have no life either. I make recommendations for texts, then follow through by randomly grilling people in front of the class. Underachievers are given personal attention. But through it all I try my utmost to maintain a modicum of basic decency, though this is still hard for me, and though on occasion I reduce people to blubbering wrecks through my waspishness.
The first spell chain is followed by others. Jinxes, mostly, but I also start introducing hexes and curses. Stupefy and Impedimenta give way to Incarcerous, Avifors, Brachiabindo, Diffindo and Reducto. I am methodical— I make them practise each spell a hundred times. I shove repetition down their throats, till their eyes are red and their fingers numb. Marietta, especially, finds herself subject to the apparatus of personal torment. The torturer's rack, if you will. I give her twice the homework I give the others, I seek her out and drag her to the library with me sometimes, because Daph is right, this is about my ego. I've staked my reputation on her being the best student in this class, and to make it work I make her suffer.
She plods through that suffering without a word of protest. She's not particularly good, but the one area where she improves very quickly is in her tactical understanding, her ability to read and react to situations. This, I figure, is a happy accident— it is not something I had counted on. If it were not for this improvement, however, I would be tempted to call my pet project a failure, since she's still only a middling duellist. Dean, on the other hand, matures under Susan, and Neville's strides under Tracey are equally impressive. That clumsy duck waddle has been refined into basic slips and pirouettes.
They are good. They're damn good. Yet each day that bleeds through my fingers is accompanied by the crushing realisation that none of this is good enough. They're three, five, in some cases ten years away from being able to fight against an inner circle Death Eater on equal footing. The only one in this group who can do that and have a fair shot at winning is me.
My efforts double. My free time disappears. My personal life tiptoes into oblivion and my academic performance falls off a fucking cliff. At first I still attend classes and submit assignments; then I altogether do away with this inconvenience. Morning finds me in the library, afternoon in personal tutoring with Marietta. The Duelling Association eats away at my evenings and nights. And when I teeter back into my bunk, the next day's lesson plans rattle about in my skull.
It is no surprise, then, that someone notices.
It happens in the second week of December. It is evening. There is an hour to go for my tutoring session, and I am camped out in the library as usual. I am perusing the translated edition of a fifteenth century tome, the second in a bundle of four volumes— I bear witness to animated grotesqueries, diagrams of individuals contorted in various positions, in agony. This is a work by a discredited dark wizard, one Amycus Gaunt, who was later beheaded for attempting to lead an insurrection against the Ministry. The style is dry, yet his musings, though absurd, are earnest. One passage, for example, forays into a long-winded theoretical discussion on a spell learnt during a tour of Eastern Europe. The incantation is a guttural twelve-line chant in Ruthenian, and there is a long list of wand movements that I memorise on instinct. But what makes me snort and shake my head and toss the book away in disgust is what this spell claims to do— Amycus Gaunt, in no uncertain terms, claims that the spell can break through any form of invisibility, including, to quote him, 'Death's invisibility'.
Which goes to show, I suppose, just how frequently the wizards of yore were given to superstitious beliefs.
I trade this for a book on charms, and it is then that I feel a presence next to my elbow. I glance up and see a rickety torso and a serene bespectacled face. Silver beard, sable robes with golden highlights— extravagance, thy name is Albus Dumbledore.
He conjures a chair next to mine and helps himself into it.
I wait for a torrent of hate to gush through my bosom but it never arrives. I am tired, I realise; I am absolutely fucking overworked and overwrought, to the point that not even Dumbledore inspires strong emotion anymore. All I feel is that writhing worm of dislike.
"What d'you want?" I ask wearily.
In lieu of a response, he summons a stack of parchments and places them in front of me. I peer at them through itching eyes. I have a runny nose; I may or may not have a fever. I try very hard to stifle a yawn. Then the name atop the first sheet registers.
"My assignments . . ." I murmur.
"From three weeks ago," he confirms. He flips through them. "T in Potions, D in charms, D in transfiguration, T in Defence, T in Arithmancy, oh look, an E in History . . ."
He folds them and pushes them aside.
"Those were everything you gave the professors," he says mildly. "I refrain from mentioning the zeros for the ones you never submitted. It has been brought to my attention, Mister Potter, that you have not attended a single class since Charms on the Nineteenth of November."
"I haven't," I admit. "Come to expel me, have you, headmaster?
"Any other student would be given a suspension," he replies.
I shrug.
"Don't make an exception for me, then. Suspend me. I welcome it. I think your school curriculum is a joke, I think the professors are a bigger joke, and once I get my OWLs I am never returning to this godforsaken castle."
"Fascinating." He peers at me through half-moon spectacles. "And quite original— I have only heard that ten times this school year, I assure you. It will please you to know, however, that your position in this school is under no threat. I have merely come to inquire after your health."
The concern in his tone blindsides me.
"Huh?"
"I am aware of your extracurricular activities," Dumbledore says. "As a teacher myself, I am also aware of the toll this profession takes on its best and brightest."
"I'm fine." I brush him off. "Never been better, actually."
His gaze skims the labyrinth of books strewn across the table. He spies my dossier and reaches for it with his good hand.
"May I?" He asks.
"Help yourself."
Ten minutes of silence, accompanied only by the sound of pages being flipped. His finger hovers for a while, then zeroes in on a specific spell.
"Ventum Dromonem? Dear me, what destructive curses you teach! And these wand movements . . ."
There is something about the unassuming way in which he talks, I suppose. It inspires respect. Even when I dislike him, even when I wish to disrespect him, it is very hard when faced with the man himself to not slip back into old habits— hard, I say, to not revert to wearing the mantle of a mere student.
"That's for Jan or Feb." I take a stab at being brusque. "I wasn't sure about it. D'you want me to cut it out?"
"Quite the contrary, Mister Potter. There is an easier method. Allow me to demonstrate." Dumbledore draws his wand. It is a long, slender, elegant strip of wood, bedecked with runes, burnished to an ethereal sheen. He tightens his fingers around the ornate handle. His hand trembles as he does so.
"Downwards." Dumbledore dips his wrist. "But instead of the thrust, followed by the flick and the slash, you do this." He rotates his wrist clockwise. "Ventum Dromonem."
The page is neatly bisected down the middle. Dumbledore repairs it with a wave.
"This alternative is conceptually superior," he explains. "However, I fear you will have little interest in the Arithmancy behind it."
Despite myself, I am impressed. That is an area effect spell, good enough to saw down great oaks. To do less damage with it than with a cutting charm shows a frightening level of control, far greater than anything I've ever achieved.
"I've never heard of that shortcut," I say.
"You would not have." Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles are shadowed despite the lamplight. "There is no textual record of it. An old friend theorised this modification. I was fortunate enough to learn it from him."
"Is there anything else you've learnt from this friend? Things I could teach my class?"
Curiosity tints my tone. I'm always up for an opportunity to better myself and those around me.
Dumbledore looks away. He loses himself in thought for a while; he is slow to emerge from the catacombs of his memories.
"He taught me nothing that would be of much value to you," Dumbledore replies.
He stands.
"It would be in all our best interests if you were to attend a few classes, if only to keep up appearances," he says. There is a sense of finality in his words— this, he seems to imply, is not up for discussion; not if I wish to continue at Hogwarts.
"I'll try."
"Please do." He turns away.
Yet my mind is on something else. I replay his shortcut, and it is the vastness of his understanding that I focus on. And just as suddenly, there dawns again that whimsy, that adolescent dream, the purity of that erstwhile wish to learn from him. A pipedream now, yet there's still something he could give me an answer for, something that's been troubling me for a while.
"Dumbledore," I call out.
He has already moved away, yet he stops and pivots to face me.
"Yes, Mister Potter?"
"You watched my duel against Grimsditch, didn't you?"
He bows his head.
"I had the pleasure of doing so."
"There was a moment," I say hesitantly, "when I used transfiguration against her . . ."
"Indeed." He nods. "If memory serves, you lost that exchange."
"She took control of my constructs," I acknowledge. "What I wish to ask is . . . why?"
Dumbledore considers this carefully.
"Mister Potter, forgive me if I overstep my bounds in saying this, but you do not understand Transfiguration."
I am annoyed.
"You must be going senile, headmaster. I'm one of the best in the world—"
He raises a single digit.
"You have a gift," he says, "much as I had a gift. One that allows you to enjoy superiority over lesser wizards."
He pauses. Grasps at a chair with his good hand.
"But when you face off against someone who has the same talent, but also an exemplary understanding of their craft, you fall well short."
The only sound in the library is the softness of his voice and the laborious whistle of his breathing.
"Transfiguration is not just the art of transforming things, nor is it limited to conjuration. There are complexities— shortcuts— involutions that give you better control, help you build stronger constructs, and yes, even let you wrest control in a battle of wills. But everything I have mentioned requires theoretical knowledge."
Dumbledore lets go of the chair.
"You are making the same mistake that I made in my youth. You are treating the art you are best at with very little respect. You, I am sorry to say, are taking it for granted."
He removes his spectacles and wipes them. He looks old, very old. His eyes glisten with unshed tears.
"I paid very dearly for my arrogance," he confesses. "It is my hope that you do not."
The revelation discomfits me, yet I have little reason to doubt him. I may dislike the man, but Albus Dumbledore has forgotten more magic than I'll ever know.
"It's just theory," I mumble. "Most of the stuff I've looked at is useless. How important could it be?"
Dumbledore puts his glasses back on.
"There has never been a case in wizarding history where understanding the theory behind a subject has made a witch or wizard worse at their craft," he replies. "You use your natural talent as a crutch, Mister Potter. Stop doing that, and you may surprise yourself."
A moment's silence.
"And now," he claps his hands together, "I must take your leave. But I leave you with this nugget of truth: once you go beyond NEWT level and start working on a mastery, you will find that a lot of the material you read makes sense and has practical applications."
He steeples his palms and leans forward.
"But the building blocks for it," Dumbledore urges, "are all at school level."
A December Night in Azkaban
She could no longer remember her own name.
They had taken her one night and thrown her into this unmarked grave. And the days and the weeks and the months and the years had melted into each other. The cold here was strong enough to chill her blood, freeze her bones. Her heart was an icicle; her nails had grown, each as sharp as a dagger, and sometimes all she wanted was to slash her throat open with them.
What stopped her was a single utterance from the sleepy lethe of that forgotten past. Someone had said they would come. This was the kindling that kept her alive. He had sworn it. He had said his joys were her joys, his griefs her griefs— then he had said he was immortal.
But she was not, and eternity was a long time.
Faces flickered in her mind's eye. Nebulous blobs, like guttering candles. Flashing in and out to the accompaniment of forgotten voices.
Sisters, she thought. They were her flesh and blood, and they had left her to die. At first she had sworn vengeance, then she had cried for help, begged for mercy; and now all sounds had stopped, except for the ghastly laughter. All that remained was that laughter, and the ever-eroding faith that someone would come.
That night, like every night, she fell asleep to the howling wind . . . and woke to panicked screams and the discordant bursts of spell fire. She peered through the bars. All was in disarray. The guards who had mocked her were nailed to the walls in a kaleidoscope of blood and viscera. The warden— the new one— was falling back, herded this way by an unseen nemesis. His shouts were defiant; she watched his wand cut through the air . . . then watched as his ribcage burst. Hoarse gurgles, then another flash, and his severed head bounced twice off the concrete and came to rest before her. As if in a dream, she saw herself staring at what was left of the man who once called himself Kingsley Shacklebolt.
The cowled figure glided through the carnage with eldritch grace. A hush fell with every step— the screams of the damned faded, even the drumming sleet was reduced to background noise. He drifted through the corridor, past the pinned forms, past the headless torso, past the severed head, its face frozen in a rictus of terror. He paused before her cell, his eyes twin points of rust. A dismissive flick, and the bars twisted and were torn open.
"Hello, Bella," the Dark Lord said.
Emotion choked her throat. Sobs heaved her bosom.
He had come for her.
Bellatrix wept without shame. She crawled forward and kissed the hem of his robes.